


Reasonable Doubt

by ElderBerryBeret



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adultery, Bipolar Richie Tozier, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Depressed Richie Tozier, Derry is a homophobic town, Don’t even ask me if that would be allowed, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie is Richie’s lawyer, Eddie is not straight, Eddie is still married, First Time Blow Jobs, Henry Bowers deserved it, I am not a lawyer, M/M, Neither of these two idiots can communicate properly, On trial for murder (but it was legit self-defence), Richie suffers in this fic, Some internalised homophobia, Steve and Bill are good buddies, Suicidal Thoughts, this is a little bit dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28741824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElderBerryBeret/pseuds/ElderBerryBeret
Summary: Afterwards, Richie can still feel the ghostly echoes of the axe in his hands and hear the soft whoosh as it slices through the air.  He can feel the reverberation of the impact, and the horrifying wet warmth of the the blood splatter on his skin.  He can visualise Henry Bowers, dead on the floor of the library.It’s no surprise when he’s charged with Henry’s murder.  Trapped in the hellhole that is Derry for the duration of the trial; with the very married Eddie acting both as his lawyer and a perpetual, unattainable, temptation; and with the stress of the trial putting pressure on his mental health; can Richie claw his life back?
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 26
Kudos: 61





	1. The Aftermath

Richie was arrested on suspicion of murder the morning after the house on Neibolt Street collapsed. As the police officer snapped the cuffs on his wrists, Richie made an ill-advised joke that he’d prefer being shackled to a bed, and the officer, who clearly had a deficient sense of humour, squeezed the metal rings so tight they cut into his skin, and manhandled him roughly through the corridors, while reading him his rights. Richie had been arrested before. He knew the drill.

People turned to stare at him, as he was perp-walked through the hospital, and he heard the click of several smartphone cameras. Steve would eviscerate him, if those photos made it onto the internet before Richie had the chance to talk to him. Steve might eviscerate him anyway. He’d dropped off the face of the earth three days earlier, after an extremely public meltdown. This was the kind of behaviour of which Steve, his manager, did not approve, and which caused Steve, his friend, to suffer sleepless nights. Usually, when Richie went off the rails, it was down to his own bad choices.

This time, Richie blamed Mike.

OK, so he didn’t really blame Mike. But it was a point of fact that Richie would not have had a public meltdown, had he not received a call from Mike that was at first confusing then gut wrenchingly terrifying. He remembered taking the call, and having a few seconds of complete conviction that it must be a wrong number. He didn’t know anyone called Mike. He was absolutely sure of it. It was only a few seconds of confusion, before the pieces slotted into place and he remembered both Mike, and started to get a sense of why he was calling. Richie knew that he would forever divide his life into before-the-call and after-the-call, and he knew, even as he hung up the phone, that his life would never be the same again.

He had clear recall of gulping down a shot, followed by a mint, and walking out on stage where the lights were too bright, and new memories from long ago kept bubbling up, like a noxious sulphur spring, derailing his performance and ending with him stumbling off stage, throwing up, getting in his car and booking a flight to Maine on hands-free as he drove, first going home to pack a bag and empty his safe, and then onto the airport. 

Richie was still wearing the clothes he’d pulled on when an injured Eddie had knocked on his door last night. It seemed like days ago, but was probably only about twelve hours since Eddie had stumbled into his room, bleeding from a gash across his cheek and splattered with Henry Bowers’ blood. Eddie had skewered Henry in the guts with the knife Henry had used to stab him, but, by the time Richie, with his own blood pumping with a horrible, hot adrenaline rush at the sight of Eddie’s injury, got to Eddie’s bathroom, Henry was gone.

Richie was covered in blood, most of it Eddie’s, and the unpleasant stench of the sewers. He looked like a walking crime scene, and it seemed like the arresting officers had drawn this conclusion, too. They pushed Richie’s head down as they put him in the back of their car, and Richie wisely kept his mouth shut. What could he say? He had, indeed, murdered Henry Bowers with an axe in the library, like a sick real-life version of Clue. He also had Eddie’s blood all over him, and Eddie was in the hospital with serious, unexplained (and inexplicable) injuries. 

Richie wasn’t a legal expert, but he didn’t need to be a lawyer to realise he could be facing some serious charges. The only saving grace about this whole day so far was that Eddie was alive, and had emerged from surgery with strong vital signs and a good prognosis from his surgeon. He was currently in intensive care. 

Richie was processed at the station. Prints and photographs. His clothes taken as evidence, all of his jokes falling flat. On reflection, Richie thought, perhaps he should exercise his right to silence. He was given an orange jumpsuit to wear and was placed in an interview room, alone with his thoughts.

The remaining five of them (don’t think about Stan, Richie told himself, not here, not now) had emerged from the wreckage of Neibolt Street with no visible injuries. Bev had caused a stir in the hospital, given that she was literally covered in blood, but she had brushed away the concerned nurses and stayed with them, as they sat in silence waiting for news of Eddie’s surgery. Richie imagined that he had the same pale, stunned and shell-shocked look that he saw on their faces.

The details of what happened down in the sewers were already starting to become hazy, as if it had happened twenty years ago, not a few hours. Richie remembered everything up to going into the storm drain clearly, and he remembered everything after the house collapsed. He remembered holding Eddie in his arms, and shouting at Mike that they needed to get Eddie to the hospital. He remembered the drive, possibly the worst twenty minutes of Richie’s life, as he kept applying pressure to Eddie’s wound, convinced that Eddie would die before they got there.

He knew they’d killed IT this time, but there was just a residual sense of the five of them coming together in a joint enterprise to end the fucking thing once and for all. Richie could feel minor injuries on his body and could not recall their origin. Flashes of memory flickered across his mind. Standing in front of two doorways, the sound of Bev screaming, the smell of decay, swirling, dancing lights. Richie couldn’t put it together into a coherent narrative. 

His hands were shaking. The shock was starting to settle into his bones. Cold. 

He wondered if he’d forget completely. The idea of forgetting Stan again, or Eddie, or any of his childhood friends, crawled up his spine like a chill, and settled in his mind. Now, all he could think about was the possibility of returning to his successful, but lonely, life in LA, and forgetting Derry all over again.

He had one phone call. He wanted to call Mike to find out if he was experiencing the same memory fade, or to talk to Bill about the possibility that they’d forget completely when they left town, or talk to Bev about the spark that was obvious to everyone whenever she and Ben were together. He wanted to talk to Eddie, to call him Spaghetti, and then wait for the inevitable explosion and probable ‘fuck you’.

Instead, he called Steve.

The conversation was brief.

Steve told him to keep his mouth shut until he had a lawyer, and then actually hung up on him, leaving him holding the phone handset away from his face and wondering why he’d wasted his call on Steve, perhaps the only man alive who was thoroughly familiar with all of Richie’s fuck ups. He’d called Steve when he was arrested for public intoxication, when he’d got his DUIs and when he was busted for possession of cocaine. In Steve’s defence, he’d always got Richie the best lawyers.

***  
The lawyer was a complete ass.

He sat like a useless piece of furniture while Richie was questioned, giving no advice other than to avoid answering any questions that would incriminate him (no shit, Sherlock). This lack of effective counsel left Richie uncertain about whether to tell the truth, or take the fifth.

The actual murder was relatively straightforward. Henry, an escaped mental patient, had been on top of Mike, with a knife in hand, having attacked Eddie earlier. Richie had picked up the nearest thing, which happened to be an axe from a historical display in the library and had clocked Henry right on the head with it. One problem was that Eddie had been stabbed in the Town House, and Henry had been killed in the library. The cops kept asking him about his intentions. Why had he gone to the library? Why hadn’t Eddie called the police after he’d been attacked? Richie knew they were angling towards an argument that there had been premeditation on Richie’s part. That he’d gone to the library with the intention of killing Henry.

He didn’t like to think about the way Henry’s head split open beneath the axe. Richie could still hear the sound, and could conjure the clear and horrific memory of how the impact echoed up the axe handle and down his spine. 

Richie’s other problem was what happened next. The truth, of course, was that they’d left the body in the library, and gone into the sewers to kill an alien monster that had been rising up every twenty-seven years to terrorise Derry. If Richie told that story, he’d end up in the same hospital Henry had escaped from.

The detectives had some questions. Why didn’t Richie call the police? Where had he been for the several hours between the murder and when Carole discovered the body, the next morning on the floor of the library? Did he go somewhere with Mike Hanlon? Where? Had anyone else been there? What had happened to Mr Kaspbrak? The detectives understood he had been stabbed by the victim, and was now in intensive care. Did Richie have anything to say about that?

His final problem was that he was a celebrity, and there was a lot of information about him readily available to the police, or to anyone able to use Google. His troubles were well-documented. The police asked him how much he’d had to drink that night. They wanted him to take a drug test, and questioned him about his diagnoses, his medication. Was Richie non-compliant with his doctor’s guidance? Had he stopped taking his medication?

Richie didn’t have anything to say.

***

Richie posted a sizeable bail and was released from jail. 

He called Bill’s cell from a payphone in the courthouse lobby. His own phone was lost somewhere in the rubble of Neibolt Street. Eddie was out of intensive care. He was conscious and was giving the doctors a hard time, according to Bill. Thank god. Richie promised to meet Bill and the others at the Town House later. 

Steve was waiting for him outside the courthouse, leaning on the hood of his rental car, his face a confusing mix of concern and fury. He drove Richie straight to his hotel room, sat him down, and started yelling. Richie was used to Steve yelling at him, but this surpassed the usual level of annoyance that he provoked.

“I need you to understand,” Steve said, “That if you don’t wind up in the state penitentiary for murder or manslaughter, or whatever they pin on you, there’s a good chance that your career is over. There might be no way back from this for you. And if you want me to put my reputation on the line for you - again, Richie, this isn’t the first time - you need to tell me exactly what happened.”

He told Steve as much as he could.

“I can’t believe this Richie.” Steve said, slightly calmer, but still with his furious face on. Richie thought Steve’s fury was now directed away from him, thank god. “How are you being charged with murder when the guy was literally trying to kill your friend?”

Richie had some theories. He watched as Steve poured three of the little bottles of whiskey into a coffee mug, and down it. He didn’t offer Richie a drink, which was either extremely bad manners or very good judgement.

“I don’t even know how to start to spin this.” Steve said. 

“We’re going to need a PR firm.” Richie said.

“I’ve already hired someone.” Steve said. “I had them on retainer before I flew out. How do you think this has been kept out of the press so far? You’re lucky that you’ve been arrested so many times that the pictures of you being escorted out of the hospital are hardly worth publishing.”

Richie nodded. There were better pictures of him being arrested out there.

“What happens now?” Richie said.

“You’re going to rent somewhere to stay here in town.” Steve said. “I’m going to get your lawyer started on getting this shitshow dismissed. And, when I’m done with that, I’m going to find out who’s responsible for bringing these ridiculous charges, and I’m going to find a way to wreck their career.”

Richie had faith in Steve. Steve had been there since the beginning for him. He’d got him out of many scrapes, and stood by him for many others. Apart from Richie’s parents, Steve was the one constant in Richie’s life. The keeper of his secrets. 

The worst thing? He was now stuck in Maine until the trial. For fuck’s sake.

***  
Richie met Mike, Ben, Bev and Bill at the Town House later that day. It was disconcerting to be sitting in the dimly-lit bar again, wondering if there were ever any staff on duty in this place. The last time he’d been here, he and Eddie had reached a non-verbal agreement to bail, to get out of town. Then Henry Bowers attacked Eddie, in his bathroom, and that put paid to Richie’s ideas of running. 

It was weird, Richie now thought, that they could still understand each other perfectly, without saying a word, after all the time that had passed. Richie had his own theories about why he had been so well attuned to Eddie, something linked to the R+E that Richie had carved down on the Kissing Bridge nearly thirty years ago. He pushed the thought aside. Eddie was a married man. And Richie had other things he needed to focus on.

Mike had been questioned by the police and released, pending further investigations. Bill, Ben and Beverley had escaped the attention of the police, so far. The group universally agreed that it was a clear case of self-defence. They said Richie had nothing to worry about. Richie, although he joked his way through the description of his interrogation, wished he could agree.

It turned out that all four of them were experiencing the same hazy memory loss around the events that had taken place in the sewers. Mike said that Richie had been in the Deadlights, but none of them could remember what that was. Ben said he could recall a suffocating feeling, like he’d been buried alive. Bill could only convey the belief that they’d made IT weak somehow, but he couldn’t remember how. 

They drank too much, and talked about Stan. Beverley had done some google-fu and had found Stan’s obituary, and had discovered that he had taken his life only moments after Mike’s call. They all sat in silence for a moment, and Richie wondered if they were all thinking the same as him. The same thing could have happened to all of them. Faced with the horror of what had happened in Derry when they were children, any one of their minds might have snapped with the weight of the memories.

Richie cried a little thinking about the neat, studious and funny boy that Stan had been, and the life cut short. A victim of that awful fucking clown, just like Georgie and Eddie Cochran and Betty Ripscome and all the others had been. He wasn’t the only one who cried. Richie could only assume that Stan could not cope with the before and after split. From what Richie could gather, Stan had been happy, and didn’t that cut deep? Stan had been happy, and he couldn’t face coming back to face the horror that had terrorised them as children. Richie didn’t think the same could be said for the rest of them. There was Bev, with her bruises and the haunted look in her eyes. Ben, alone in the world. Bill who was unconsciously stuck recreating in each of his books the horror of his brother’s murder. Eddie, who had married his mother, and Mike who had stayed behind, waiting and remembering. And there was the colossal fuck up that was Richie, a moderately successful, mentally unstable, comedian with a disastrous private life, a history of addiction and a talent for bad decisions. No, he thought, they were not happy. Successful, yes, but miserable, all of them.

***  
Richie rented a house in town. It was small, close to Main Street and modern. Richie had emphatically told his realtor that he would not consider any properties built before 2005. He couldn’t stay in a place that had any chance of triggering his memories. The floodgates were open, and Richie now remembered, with some shocking clarity, growing up in Derry. He could not remember the specifics of going down into the sewers, back then or recently, but there were some places in town where the past and the present seemed to fold over onto themselves, creating a strange sense of duality in Richie, like he was inhabiting both then and now simultaneously. He could almost feel the boy he’d once been, as if he was still alive inside him. Sometimes this felt joyous, other times, terrifying.

He found himself, about a week after Neibolt Street, back at the Kissing Bridge, tracing his fingers over the faded lettering.

Richie didn’t want to be in Derry for too long. He was still hoping that the police investigation would uncover the extent of Henry’s insanity, and that the prosecutor would conclude that Richie’s actions were justified without the need for a trial.

Unfortunately for Richie, the DA was up for re-election, and it seemed like Richie was being held up as an example of the DA’s probity. Richie would not get “special treatment” due to his celebrity, and would be held to account for his actions, just like a regular citizen. Richie saw this play out on TV, thankfully only on the local, not the national, news. It was probably just a matter of time before the big media organisations started paying attention, although events in Derry did have a way of slipping under the rest of the country’s radar.

He moved in with his one bag of luggage. He’d have to buy some new clothes. And a new phone. And get a car. Richie drew up a list, and took himself off to the retail park outside town, and went shopping. He texted his new number to the Losers, and to Steve, and to his parents, feeling a little low that these eight were the only people who he wanted to stay in touch with right now. 

Steve flew back to LA after a couple of days, with a promise to look after his apartment while Richie was in Derry. Richie waved him off, confident that Steve would look after his interests in LA, that he would reschedule any dates that could be rescheduled, and postpone or cancel the rest; and sure that Steve would look after his apartment.

Richie spent a lot of time at the hospital, during the first few weeks in Derry. Apart from Richie’s almost desperate need to make sure, at least once a day, that Eddie was still recovering (he couldn’t shake the horrific memory of that car-ride and his bone crumbling fear that Eddie wouldn’t make it to the hospital), Richie spent his days in his lawyer’s office.

Steve would have hired the best attorney that he could find in the area. Steve had over three thousand contacts saved in his phone, and knew people in every corner of the country. If Richie needed a table reservation at a New York restaurant with a four-month waiting list, Steve would know who to call to get a table the same day; if Richie under-estimated his age and flexibility and tried keeping up with the twenty-somethings at a Hollywood party, Steve could find him a chiropractor, a masseuse, or a yoga class. Whenever Richie had been arrested before, Steve’s lawyers always quickly got the charges down to the absolute minimum.

This guy, though, might have been pulled randomly out of the phone book. 

Richie just didn’t click with him. There was the obvious problem that he couldn’t actually be honest about why he and the others had come back to Derry, coincidentally on the same day that Henry Bowers went on a murderous rampage at the secure unit, and escaped. He couldn’t be honest about where he’d gone after Henry had been killed, where he’d spent that vital several hours or what had happened to Eddie. Richie thought these missing hours were at the root of his legal troubles. If it had been a justifiable homicide - the basis of Richie’s defence - why had he left? Why didn’t he call the police? Where had he been?

There was also a distinct lack of fundamental understanding between Richie and his lawyer. Richie got a tired, judgmental vibe from him. The feeing that he found Richie trivial, a spoiled celebrity who probably deserved to have charged thrown at him to see if a jury would conclude that some of them should stick. 

In short, he didn’t know why Steve had recommended him. 

“It’s because he’s the best in the area.” Steve said on the phone when Richie complained that the lawyer still hadn’t managed to get the charges dropped - or substantially reduced. “The back waters of Maine aren’t awash with celebrity lawyers Rich. He comes highly recommended. Dan said he was the best you could get.” Dan was Richie’s usual lawyer, but Dan (who’d got Richie out of trouble many times in the past) didn’t want to touch a murder charge in Maine. Mainly, Richie thought, because Dan would not want to spend six months in Maine. Really, who would swap California for Maine? No-one, that’s who. 

“I’m getting a really negative vibe from him.” Richie said. “He doesn’t like me.”

“He doesn’t like your bullshit, Rich.” Steve said. “You’re so transparent. It’s obvious that there’s something you’re not saying about what happened. If you want him to help you, you’re going to need to start telling the truth.”

“It’s not that easy.” Richie said. 

“Look, if you’re protecting someone....”

“It’s not that, Steve. Richie said. “I’m not protecting anyone.”

“And I suppose it’s just a coincidence that your high school reunion takes place immediately after you bomb, wait, no, that wasn’t a bomb, that was a total on stage meltdown, followed by you throwing up in a waste bin? With a bunch of famous and accomplished people that you’ve literally never mentioned once before in your life?” Steve’s voice was rising. “And what happened to the guy in the hospital Rich? I looked into it. He was impaled through the chest. How the hell did that happen?”

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this, Steve.” Richie said, employing his well-worn and trusted tactic of avoiding difficult topics. 

“Don’t you dare hang up on me...”. Steve’s voice tapered off as Richie lowered the phone from his ear and pressed end. He pressed cancel when the phone buzzed with an incoming call. He’d pay for this later. Steve would make sure of it. 

Richie felt bad about shutting Steve out, but honestly, what could he say that wouldn’t sound insane? Yeah, Steve, the guys and I went down into Derry’s sewer system to kill a murderous alien clown? Jesus Christ, it sounded insane to Richie, and he’d lived through it.

***  
Richie could tell that Eddie was truly recovering from his injuries, when the doctors lowered the dose of his pain medication, and the sarcastic, abrasive little shit emerged from the opioid fog he’d been in since he was injured. 

“I can’t eat this.” Eddie was saying, to the orderly who’d brought his lunch on a tray. “I’m lactose intolerant.” Richie put an over-the-top innocent expression on his face, as the orderly took the tray away from Eddie and scuttled out of the room. “Don’t even fucking start with me, Richie. I know you think it’s all bullshit, but diet is important.”

“You are what you eat.” Richie said. “I get it.”

“Then why do you live on pizza and take out?”

“Because I’m an adult who is capable of making his own choices?” Richie said, not calling Eddie out for making some heavy assumptions, possibly because the assumptions were, for the most part, accurate. “And because I like pizza.”

“I bet you’ve never cooked a meal in your life.” Eddie said, and Richie absolutely loved this. He had to work really hard to keep his face neutral and stop a massive grin appearing. Being insulted by Eddie was the best thing that had happened to him in weeks. 

“I can cook.” Richie said. 

“Flipping burgers on a grill doesn’t count.” Eddie said.

Richie rolled his eyes, and flipped Eddie off for good measure. Eddie huffed, shifted in the bed and winced with pain. “Are you OK?” Richie said.

“Still hurts when I move too much.” Eddie said. “I should be cleared to start physio in a couple of days.”

Richie nodded. He’d spoken to Eddie’s doctors, and had a vague idea of the long road Eddie was facing to get back to full health. He could see that Eddie was starting to understand this for himself, and he thought Eddie would struggle with the idea of being so vulnerable. As a result of his injuries, he was physically limited, at risk of infection and weak. 

Richie changed the subject. “Ben and Bev are talking about heading out of town.” He said. “Together.” He waggled his eyebrows in Eddie’s direction, and earned himself an eye roll from Eddie. 

“Ben finally got the girl.” Eddie said, looking a little sad. “Let’s hope they get their happy ending.”

“I’m not sure Bev’s husband is going to like receiving that memo.” Richie said.

Eddie’s face twisted, and he leaned back on his pillows. “I’m sure he won’t. But Ben and Bev deserve it.” He said, and sat silently for a moment. “I’m feeling a bit tired.” Richie noticed the purple shadows under his eyes, and the grey shade of his complexion. 

“I’ll get going.” Richie said.

“Wait.” Eddie said, and Richie paused, halfway out of the chair. 

When Eddie didn’t speak immediately, Richie sat back down, and waited. Eddie’s face was turned away from Richie, but Richie thought his colour went a few shades paler. Richie didn’t like silences. He naturally tended to speak into any pause in the conversation, with whatever came to his mind. Some people found this stream of consciousness amusing, and it went down well on talk shows. But now, the silence was passing awkward and was moving into excruciating, Richie stayed quiet.

“I’m going to ask Myra for a divorce.” Eddie said, still not looking Richie in the eye.

“Oh.” Richie said. “Ok.” He hadn’t been expecting that. He’d made a joke about Eddie’s wife at the reunion at Jade of the Orient. Eddie had bristled, as if the joke was too close to the bone, but hadn’t given Richie the impression that his marriage was shaky. “Why?”

“Do you need to ask that?” Eddie said, and Richie got a sense that there were layers and layers in that statement, tendrils of meaning reaching deep into the past and crawling into the present. 

Richie did what he always did in awkward and uncertain situations. He made light of things. “Did you finally decide to cut the old apron strings?”

Eddie’s face closed off. “Fuck you Richie. Fuck you.”

Richie backed down, and curbed his mouth in a rare feat of self-control. “Sorry Eddie, that was insensitive.”

“It’s not just Myra.” Eddie said. “I don’t want to go back to New York at all. I was miserable, and I didn’t even know it.”

“Maybe now’s not the time for life-changing decisions.” Richie said, although he could empathise, wholeheartedly, with Eddie’s sentiment. He felt he owed it to Eddie to go against every instinct he was feeling and advise his friend to be cautious. “You’ve been through some major trauma. You should concentrate on getting well, and getting out of the hospital before you start making any big changes.”

“This is the longest time I’ve been apart from Myra since we got married.” Eddie said. “And I’ve had a lot of time to think about my life, since they tapered down the morphine. I’ve been working so hard, and I never stopped to think that I was always working towards goals that I never actually wanted to achieve. No one’s ever asked me what I wanted. My life has been a series of check boxes. I think I forgot who I was - and I don’t mean the weird supernatural memory loss, I mean I...”. Eddie faltered, looked down at his hands, which were gripping his sheets.

Richie didn’t know what to do with such a naked and emotional confession. He was sorry for Eddie, and he wanted him to be happy, and oh boy, did he empathise with what Eddie was saying. Richie’s career was the only thing in his life that felt deliberate, like he’d actually made the choice to step up onto the stage on that first open mic night. Everything else was, like Eddie said, a series of check boxes, or lurching from one bad decision to the next.

Eddie was still looking down, gripping the sheets, and Richie could see his throat working, as if he was holding something in, unable to let the words out.

“Hey Eddie,” Richie said, suddenly painfully aware that Eddie, in this moment, was extremely fragile, and might shatter, right here in front of him, if he said the wrong thing. “It’s OK. You survived, we survived. We’ve got a second chance now. Anything that’s not working, we can fix it.”

Eddie nodded.

Richie got the impression that Eddie was fighting back tears.

***

A couple of weeks later, the Losers convened for the last time at the Derry Town House, this time to see Ben and Bev off on a road trip, that Richie, privately, didn’t think they’d ever come back from. It reminded him of what Eddie had said in the hospital. It seemed like none of them would be going back to the same life they’d left behind. 

In a quiet moment, when Bev and Richie were alone at the bar, Bev told Richie that Tom, her husband, would fight her for every single penny and that he’d probably take control of the business she’d spent twenty years building. When she looked back across the bar to Ben sitting at the table with the others, Richie could see all that fade away. She could rebuild, she told him. She was the designer, the brand was built on her talent. Tom’s thing was marketing, but he had no product to market, without her. She was happy, in control. And if Bev was happy, Richie was happy for her.

He wondered, watching the swish of her skirt as she walked back to their table, if he would ever find someone who’d look at him they way Ben looked at Bev.

Mike was packing up his life in Derry. He would be recalled to Richie’s trial as a witness, but was free to leave the state, and so was heading for Florida, saying that he needed to spend some time in the sunshine. Richie understood why Mike was leaving. There was no need to keep watch anymore. Mike, more than any of them, deserved a chance to move on.

Bill was still staying at the Town House, and didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get back to the set of his movie in England just yet. 

Richie spent his days on the phone to Steve, writing, in conference with his lawyer and visiting Eddie in the hospital. Eddie was due to be released from the hospital in a couple of days. He’d been making a lot of calls to New York, but had kept the details private. Richie could see the strain on Eddie’s face, and he was hoping things would start to look up for Eddie once he was discharged.

It was weird, spending so much time with Eddie and the others. Richie could feel himself regressing, emotionally, back to the time when the six of them had been almost his whole world. The Losers, for a brief (and horrific) period, had been his lifeline, his air, the people that kept him sane. That was the thing about his loneliness as a child; he hadn’t noticed just how alone he’d been until he wasn’t alone, until he belonged to a group. Then, suddenly, briefly, he’d been understood and accepted. 

He was only seeing now, with the clarity of hindsight and with his memories, finally, intact, how the loneliness slowly crept back as the Losers drifted out of his life; first Bev, then Ben, Stan and Bill, and finally, Eddie. They all left. And they didn’t call or write. It hurt each time. It hurt most when Eddie moved to Albany when school ended. Richie had barely left his room that summer. He’d been heartbroken.

Then Richie left for college, and he’d forgotten Derry and all his friends, too.

They waved Bev and Ben off the next morning. All of them hungover and bleary-eyed, standing awkwardly on the steps of the Town House, hugging each other and promising to meet at Thanksgiving - if he wasn’t in jail by then, Richie quipped to a flat response from his audience - and then Ben and Bev were in Ben’s rental car, heading out of sight.

***

It was Eddie’s last day in the hospital. He was sitting on his bed, finally free from the various drips and drains that had kept him tethered to the bed for so many weeks, and fully dressed, in anticipation that the doctor, would discharge him today. 

The door to Eddie’s room was open, and Richie could tell that Eddie’s attention was only half on what he was saying. Eddie’s eyes kept drifting towards the door, and he was projecting such a high level of anxiety that he was triggering Richie’s own unease, and causing him to fidget in the uncomfortable plastic chair.

Richie did what Richie always did in uncomfortable situations. His mouth started running, and he couldn’t seem to make it stop, even though he could see that Eddie was half-irritated by his stream of consciousness, and half ignoring him. Richie couldn’t recall, later, how the conversation turned to his lawyer. He usually avoided talking about his legal troubles, as he’d come to think of them, when he was visiting Eddie. Eddie didn’t need to add worrying about Richie to his long list of troubles. Today, Richie really wasn’t in control of what was coming out of his mouth, and he was rambling about how his lawyer clearly hated him, and that he didn’t seem to be preparing an effective defence, and Richie was going to do time, for sure.

“I could represent you.” Eddie said.

“What?” Richie’s brain screeched to a halt, and he locked eyes with Eddie, who now seemed to be paying attention to him, and not impatiently wondering where the doctor was.

“I could represent you.” Eddie said again, more clearly, as if Richie was being a bit slow on the uptake. “As your lawyer.”

“You’re a risk analyst.” Richie said. “No offence, Eddie, but...”

“I’m a qualified lawyer.” Eddie said, interrupting him. “I passed the bar in New York, before I moved into banking. There’s more money in banking.”

“Jesus, Eddie.” Richie said. “How rich are you?”

“Richer than you, probably.” Eddie said, looking bright-eyed for the first time in weeks. “If I get to keep any of it after the divorce. Seriously Richie. Fire Steve’s guy and let me represent you.”

Richie gave this serious and weighty matter about five seconds of consideration, and then grabbed Eddie’s hand, giving it an over-exaggerated shake. “Eddie.” He said, in his British accent, sinking down onto one knee in a parody of a proposal. “Will you be my lawyer?”

Eddie grinned. “Get off the floor, idiot, it’s probably a Petri dish down there.” Richie sat back in the chair. “It’ll give me something to do, while I figure out everything else.” He said. 

“Steve’s going to be furious.” Richie said. “He’s going to think I’ve gone completely rogue up here.”

Eddie punched him lightly on the arm. “Hey! I might not have practiced law for a while, but I am good at it. My speciality was financial services law, when I was practicing, but I used to do some pro bono criminal cases.”

“And banking law was less lucrative than risk analysis?” Richie said. “I am clearly not in the right profession.”

Eddie shrugged. “You are in the right profession, Richie. You literally get paid to talk for a living. I can’t think of anything more apt.”

“And you literally worry for a living, Eddie, so I’d say that’s pretty apt, too.” Richie said. “Oh ho.” He said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “If you’re my lawyer, Eds, does that mean I’m paying for your services? Can I tell you what to do? Are you, like, one of my people, now?”

“Don’t get any ideas.” Eddie said. “You won’t be paying for my services, and I won’t be taking orders from you. If anything, you’ll be taking orders from me. If you want to stay out of jail.”

Richie ignored him, and ploughed on, delightedly. “I like my coffee black.” He said. “You might want to write this down, Eddie. It’s important that employees know what their boss expects.”

“I’m already regretting this.” Eddie said, scowling.

Richie just smirked at him.

This meant he could fire the other guy. It meant Eddie would be staying in Derry. Richie would have the chance to spend time with him. It would be fun.

Who was he kidding? It would be torture, being so close to Eddie, getting to know him again, working out how he’d changed in the last twenty odd years and how he was the same. Trying to make sure his adolescent crush (it was more than a crush, Richie thought, ruefully), didn’t make things weird between them. Eddie might have asked his wife for a divorce, but he was still married, still straight. Off limits. 

Richie must be a masochist. It was the only logical explanation.

The doctor came into the room, with his entourage of residents and medical students, and Eddie’s attention switched to focus on the advice he was being given, prior to being discharged.


	2. Billable Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie takes on Richie’s case. Richie may not have thought this through.

Steve did not take the news that Richie had fired his lawyer well.

“Jesus Christ, Richie.” He said from the other side of the country, crystal clear in Richie’s ear. The wonders of modern telecommunications. “Are you serious? I don’t know what’s got into you this year. It’s like you are deliberately trying to sabotage yourself. Are you doing drugs again? No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I can’t actually tell what’s true and what’s bullshit right now.”

Richie was sitting alone in his rented apartment, picking the label off a bottle of beer that he’d half drunk, with the curtains open and the yellow glow from the street lights outside his only illumination. It was starting to get colder, especially at night. Richie remembered the bite of the winters up here in Maine, and missed the year round sun of LA. He imagined Steve, sitting in the bright afternoon sunshine, while he was sitting in a grey twilight. He was homesick, even though, technically, Derry was as much his home as LA was.

“It makes sense.” Richie said, tired of defending himself, but wholly understanding Steve’s cynicism. Most of what Steve said about him was true. He had self-sabotaged his career, he was stuck in Maine, facing a murder charge and living in a tiny apartment. It was categorically not what he’d planned for this year. “Eddie knows me. He’s qualified.”

“He doesn’t know you!” Steve said. “You hung around as kids. But in the twenty years I’ve known you, you’ve never once mentioned Eddie Kaspbrak. Or told me that you went to school with Bill Denbrough and Beverley Marsh.” Steve paused, probably hoping that Richie would fill the silence with some kind of explanation. “I’ve looked into Eddie Kaspbrak - don’t start with me, it’s what you pay me for - and he’s not even a lawyer. He’s in banking, and he’s got a reputation for being difficult.”

“He’s a risk analyst.” Richie said. “And he’s not difficult. He’s precise, and likes things to be done in a certain way.”

“Are you actually ever going to tell me what the fuck is going on up there?” Steve sounded apoplectic. “Because I am starting to be very concerned about your mental health, Richard.”

“Don’t go there, Steve.” Richie said, his own anger starting to rise up. He could feel it in his stomach, like an explosion, forcing him out of his chair to pace in front of the window. He hated it when Steve policed his moods, attributing every little blip to his diagnosis. It was infuriating. And unfair. He could see the street outside, no traffic, no pedestrians. He focussed on the streetlights, and how the puddles of yellow light illuminated the parked cars. He had to rein in the impulse to lash out at Steve verbally, which would only add fuel to the fire. He counted the cars below. He could see six. He tried to identify them. A Ford, an SUV of some description, a black Camaro, Richie couldn’t name the others. Eddie would know, Richie thought, he’d always had a thing for cars.

“What am I supposed to think?” Steve said. “You’re keeping secrets and you’re lying to me. That’s exactly how it started before. You’re either telling lies now, or you’ve been lying to me the whole time I’ve known you. Which is it Richie? If you grew up with Bill Denbrough, why wouldn’t you tell me? We move in the same circles. I’m pretty sure I introduced you to him at Sammy’s party a couple of years back.” Richie searched his memory. He didn’t remember much about Sammy’s party, other than he knew he’d been there. It had been a bit of an event. And Richie had been high, so off his face that the entire night was a blur. He might have been introduced to Bill, then, but he couldn’t remember. It made him wonder, would he have recognised Bill, if he’d met him back then? 

“And I shouldn’t need to remind you.” Steve said, “we’ve been here before. But this time, you’re not just self-destructing, this time you’ve actually killed a man.”

Richie felt his rage subside, to be replaced by a sick, cold feeling, as he remembered the reverberation of the impact from the axe, the blood splatter on his face, on his clothes and his shoes, and the sight of Henry lying there on top of Mike, indisputably dead, with his brains leaking out of his head. 

“If I could tell you, Steve, I would.” Richie said.

“I think you need to check in with your doctor.” Steve said. “I’ll arrange a FaceTime session. Unless you want to find someone new in Maine?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Richie said. “I’m fine.”

“It’s non-negotiable.” Steve said. “This is all too weird, and it’s too much like what happened before. I’m worried about you.”

“I said don’t go there.” Richie said, the fury rising again. “You can’t keep throwing it back in my face every time we have a disagreement. I said I am fine.”

“That’s what you said last time.” Steve said, but Richie could tell by the tone of his voice that he was not backing down. “I’m going to make that appointment, and you will keep it.”

Richie nodded.

***

Richie kept his appointment. He FaceTimed with his psychiatrist, who prescribed another medication, an instant release to be taken as-needed alongside his extended release, to help him stay stable, despite the stress he was facing. He was told not to drink alcohol. Richie nodded along, but didn’t intend to fill the script. He didn’t need it.

***  
Eddie was back staying at the Town House. Richie spent a fair amount of time there with Bill and Eddie. Eddie took a lot of calls on his cellphone, and always excused himself from the room when his phone rang. He didn’t talk about what was going on back in New York. He went to his medical appointments by himself, and was guarded about whatever was discussed there.

Bill eventually couldn’t put off returning to his real life. He told Richie that he’d been threatened with a lawsuit by his film’s producers if he didn’t get back on set to finish the rewrites that were now holding up the entire production. Richie suspected that Bill’s wife, the actress who looked like a carbon copy of Beverley, might have a hand in the threats coming from England. 

Richie watched Bill as he packed his clothes. 

“I’ll come back.” Bill said, half-heartedly folding shirts and jeans, moving around his room, gathering up the bits and pieces that had accumulated over the weeks. “As soon as I wrap up the rewrites, I’ll come back.”

“You don’t need to come back for me.” Richie told him. “You should put this - Derry - behind you, and move on with things.”

“It doesn’t feel right.” Bill said. “Leaving you here alone to face the consequences of what we did.”

It did seem unfair, when Richie stopped to think about it, that he was the only one of them to be dealing with any real-world consequences. On the other hand, he had been the one to pick up the axe. That was an unarguable fact. And Derry had taken its toll on all of them, not just Richie. He could see that in the way Bill sometimes lapsed into silence, only to startle when someone tried to draw him back into the conversation. Richie thought Bill might be remembering Georgie, or the boy from the fairground, or any one of the other kids. Bill had made a living from tapping into the horror that had scarred him, but now the horror was at the front of his mind, not trapped in his subconscious. He could see it in Mike, who was packing up his whole life and who was desperate to get away. And he could see it in the strain in Eddie’s face, whenever he came back from taking one of his phone calls from New York.

“Eddie’s staying.” Richie said. “For a while.” Bill gave Richie a look that he couldn’t decipher, and carried on packing.

Richie was, admittedly, finding it difficult to be around Eddie. It was great, obviously, to have the chance to get to know Eddie as a man (and to marvel, at times, how little Eddie had changed in the intervening years), but the feelings that had burned through him as a teenager, had resurfaced. Eddie was the same infuriating, irritating little shit that he’d been at fourteen, only hotter and with better dress sense. It was distracting. He remembered how he’d once felt they were magnetised to each other, Richie bouncing off Eddie’s neuroticism and Eddie playing off Richie’s chaotic energy, always in each other’s space, poking and looking for a reaction that the other invariable provided. Richie didn’t have a word for what he felt for Eddie back then. Friends had been inadequate. He’d been friends with Bill, Ben, Mike and Stan, but he hadn’t wanted to be close to them all the time, like he did with Eddie. Had he known that he’d loved Eddie? He had, in a secretive, repressed, self-loathing kind of way. Richie didn’t know, until much later when the memory of Eddie had faded, that bisexuality was a thing, that it was possible to like boys the same way he liked girls. Richie had spent his teenage years in a state of confusion, drawn to Eddie and terrified because of what it might mean.

He was trying not to be obvious about it, but he was sure his emotions were written across his face, whenever Eddie was in the room. 

Eddie came back, locking his phone and tucking it into his pants pocket. “You need a lift to the airport?” He said. “I need to get out of this town for a couple of hours.”

“Road trip to the airport!” Richie cried. “I call shotgun.”

Bill and Eddie both rolled their eyes in his direction and Bill carried on with his packing. “Wait for me downstairs, guys.” Bill said. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

Eddie and Richie made their way downstairs to the bar. 

“Are you cleared to drive?” Richie said. 

Eddie fixed him with a look, and Richie didn’t press him. He suspected that it would be several weeks before Eddie was medically cleared to drive. A penetrating chest wound took time to heal, and Eddie had only been out of the hospital for three weeks. All the more reason for Richie to tag along. He could take over the driving if he needed to.

Richie fidgeted in his seat. He wanted to ask Eddie about things back in New York, but he also didn’t want to pry. Eddie was taking pains to keep to himself whatever was going on. 

“We need to start preparing for your next court date.” Eddie said, Richie hummed noncommittally. “We’re going to need to get you ready for cross examination.” Eddie continued, pulling out his pocket notebook and scribbling something down. Richie could see that the notebook was orderly, with neat margins, and excellent penmanship. Very Eddie. “I need to know everything that might come to light during the trial. You should start writing things down. Your whole life story.”

“Including the homicidal clown and our blood pact?” Richie said.

“Yes, including that.” Eddie said. “Everything. I need to know about everything. I can’t defend you, if I don’t have the information.”

Well, Richie thought, this could get embarrassing extremely quickly. Strike embarrassing. Completely humiliating. “I could get you and Steve together.” He said. “You could have dinner and swap stories. Between the two of you, you’ve got pretty much my whole life covered.”

“Richie,” Eddie said, in the tone of voice Richie was now associating with Eddie, the lawyer, not Eddie his friend. “You literally have nothing else to do. You can spend a couple of days putting something together, can’t you?”

Richie nodded, his stomach churning with anxiety at the thought of supplying his whole, warts and all, life story to Eddie. He could see the logic. And it would be equally embarrassing to face questions about his past from the prosecution on the witness stand. The possibility of actually going to trial was starting to sit under Richie’s ribs, like a permanent tension that he couldn’t shake. He thought about the prescription that he’d shoved into the drawer of his bedside table back at the apartment. He didn’t need it.

Bill came down the stairs, hauling his suitcase down with him, and Eddie slid inelegantly off his barstool. “Are you coming?” He called back to Richie. Richie trailed behind the two of them, still processing what Eddie had just asked him. 

Eddie’s rental car was a shiny black Mercedes, a conspicuously expensive model that must be costing a small fortune to hire. Richie slipped into the passenger seat while Bill and Eddie were wrestling Bill’s case into the trunk.

The drive to Bangor Airport was subdued. Eddie slapped Richie’s hands away from the radio and drove in an aggressive and yet cautious style that Richie thought summed him up as a person. Eddie as a boy had been like a small dog, yappy and quick to anger, yet careful of a multitude of dangers both real and perceived. Richie didn’t even dare to ask if he could smoke in Eddie’s car.

Bill talked a little about his movie, and the task that was awaiting him in England. He didn’t mention Audra, Richie noticed. 

“Steve thinks we met.” Richie said apropos of nothing, swivelling in his seat to catch Bill’s eyes. “At one of Sammy Schmidt’s parties.” 

Bill didn’t reply immediately. “I did go to one of his parties a couple of years ago.” He said eventually. I think it was after the Emmy’s? Audra was nominated, but didn’t win.”

“That’s the one.” Richie said. “Did we meet? Do you remember?”

Bill shook his head. “I don’t remember anything about that night.” He said. “Other than what Audra told me. She was furious with me. She said I was black out drunk, but I honestly don’t remember drinking that much. I figured there might have been some reaction with the pills I was taking at the time. Or that someone had slipped me something.” 

“I don’t remember it either. “ Richie said. “Steve told me that I was drunk, so I just assumed I’d blacked out. Weird that we were both there and didn’t remember.”

“On the other hand,” Eddie said. “Looking at the bigger picture guys, is the fact that we all forgot our entire childhoods and everything that happened in Derry for nearly thirty years.”

Bill and Richie both hummed in agreement. 

“What did you tell yourselves?” Eddie asked. “What internal narrative did you put in place to make sense of that?”

Bill leaned forward. “I told myself - and I had therapists tell me - that I was suppressing the trauma of what happened to Georgie. I knew I had a brother who died and I knew that my parents were completely broken afterwards and that life was never the same again, but if you asked me how Georgie died, I would have said he was in an accident. I had in my mind that he lost his arm, but when I did try to remember, from time to time, what had happened to George, it was just blank. My therapists spent years trying to help me access the memory.”

“Wow.” Richie said. That was some dark shit. He couldn’t imagine what life must have been like for Bill. Even after he left Derry, he would have been dealing with his parents’ lonely silence and the gap left by his little brother. 

“I told myself that it was normal to forget childish things.” Eddie said. “And I only ever wondered whether I was normal when people would recall vivid memories of birthdays, or how they felt when they first saw Empire Strikes Back, and all I could come up with was dry, lifeless facts. I sometimes thought my mother might have something to do with it, the way she was, you know? She never once mentioned Derry after we moved to Albany. It was like the slate had been wiped for her, too.”

“Weird.” Richie said. He wasn’t ready to share his own story with Bill and Eddie. Not even Steve knew that Richie had always thought his memory loss was due to the anti-psychotic medication he’d been prescribed shortly after he turned eighteen, after his first full blown manic episode when he was a freshman at UCLA. 

Eddie drove, and they all lapsed into silence. Richie was thinking about his first semester at college. 

With hindsight, and with the benefit of a diagnosis, Richie could see there had been signs that all was not well in his mind, but at the time, he’d been caught off guard. At first, the changes had been subtle. He actually thought he was getting better. He felt brighter, more energetic, after a long summer in his room with the curtains drawn, depressed because Eddie and Bill had both left town and, like the others, hadn’t stayed in touch. For some weeks, he’d been at his best. Witty, charming, funny. Full of verve and embracing all that college had to offer. He partied hard, lost his virginity to a girl called Carole and discovered he also had a thing for dark-haired boys, which was new. His school work was easy, papers flowed through his fingers onto the page with flair. He made straight As. 

It was around Halloween when he reached his tipping point. Halloween fell on a Monday. Richie had managed about four hours sleep over the previous five days, and things were getting blurry, although he still felt on top of the world. He turned in two papers on the Friday, and would later learn that both had been incomprehensible, pages filled with rambling babble that made no sense when he read them back, embarrassed. At the Halloween party hosted by one of the fraternities, Richie had cornered a girl, who he thought was interested in his theory, newly discovered, but all consuming, that the Dean of the school was a member of the Illuminati, and was using the Dean’s List as a recruitment tool. He was convinced that the Dean wanted to induct him.

He wasn’t aware of it at the time, but the girl was freaked out and terrified, desperate to get away from him. With the benefit of hindsight, and a dose of insight once he was medicated, he could see why she would have been afraid. He was wearing a costume that was supposed to be a sexy nurse, but probably looked more like a seventies porn star.

When Richie staggered off to top up his drink, the girl told all her friends about the crazy person who had cornered her. Some of her guy friends, boozed up and belligerent, challenged Richie. Richie squared up to them, even though it was one against four. He was convinced that the fraternity boys were Illuminati soldiers on a mission to wipe his memory, and worse, one of them was wearing a clown costume. This triggered something in Richie, that he wouldn’t understand until years later, and he fought like a wildcat, knocking one boy unconscious, bloodying another’s nose and biting a third’s arm hard enough to draw blood. Campus police were called, and Richie, by this time bleeding himself and incoherently babbling about the Illuminati and the clown, was placed on a 5150.

He spent two weeks in the hospital, where he was prescribed an anti-psychotic and lithium. It knocked him out of his mania, but left him sluggish. His parents had come to California from Chicago, putting their lives on pause, to make sure Richie was well enough to stay in college. They wanted him to come home, but Richie refused, and because he was eighteen, they couldn’t force him. His psychiatrist had spent months tinkering with his meds, and the dosage, until they hit a combination that felt like a switch had been flipped in his head, and he felt clear-headed again. He’d always assumed his memory-loss was a side effect of the drugs.

The road had been rocky since then. Richie had long periods, sometimes years, when he was well. He also had times when he wasn’t well. There were times when he stopped taking his meds, usually when he felt good, and the side effects from the medication seemed to outweigh the benefits. There had been times, in his twenties and thirties, when Richie had self-medicated, using illicit drugs and alcohol to perk him up or slow him down. Now he tended to drink too much, even though his meds heightened the effect of the booze, but he stayed away from anything harder. Steve had developed various work-arounds that kept Richie’s career on track when he was too ill to work, and he took an active interest in Richie’s wellbeing, that Richie sometimes found stifling, but was usually in his best interest.

Richie supposed he’d have to tell Eddie all of this, or gamble on the unlikely event that the prosecution would avoid the topic of his mental health entirely. God, there were so many incidents that he was ashamed of, peppered throughout Richie’s adult life. For the first time, he wondered if it had been a mistake to accept Eddie’s offer to represent him. Maybe Eddie, when he saw what Richie was really like, would run for the hills. 

Richie didn’t understand why he was so upset by this thought.

“What’s the matter with you?” Eddie said to Richie, as he swung the car into a space in the short-stay carpark. “You’ve hardly said a word and you look green.”

Richie shook off the memory of his first breakdown. “Just a touch of travel sickness.” He said. “You drive like a maniac, Eddie.”

“Fuck you, dude.” Eddie said, turning off the ignition and getting out of the car. Richie clambered out, and lifted the seat so that Bill could unfold himself from the backseat.

Eddie was hauling Bill’s bags out of the trunk, as Bill slung an arm around Richie’s shoulders and pulled him to one side, just out of Eddie’s earshot. “Take care of him, Richie.” Bill said, quietly. “I know you’ve got a lot going on, but he’s pretty fragile, and he needs someone looking out for him.”

“Sure Bill.” Richie said, although he didn’t agree that Eddie was fragile. Eddie might think he was fragile, or afraid or lacking in courage, but he was the bravest man Richie knew. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“I think he needs more than that from you.” Bill said.

Before Richie could ask what Bill meant, Eddie yelled at them. “Hey! I know you two are famous, but I’m not your busboy.”

Bill jogged over and took his bags out of Eddie’s hands. “I guess I’d better get going.” He said. “I wish I didn’t have to leave right now. It seems so unfair...”

“It’s fine, Bill.” Richie said. “You can’t put your life on hold.”

“I don’t know, Richie.” Bill said. “We started all this together. It feels wrong that we’re not finishing it together.”

“We finished the important part together.” Richie said, quietly. “Now go check in, and get that movie finished, before the studio sues your ass.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him.” Eddie said, nodding towards Richie. “We’ll get through this.”  
Bill hugged them both, and disappeared into the terminal, dragging his suitcase behind him. Richie and Eddie watched until the automatic doors swished closed behind him.

“Do you want me to drive back?” Richie said. 

“I’m fine to drive, Richie.” Eddie said, with an irritated tone. “I don’t need you policing my fitness.”

“Jesus, Eddie.” Richie said, his own irritation flaring in response. “I was only offering. There’s no need to bite my head off.”

Eddie got in the car, slamming the door with more force than was necessary. Richie stood for a second, on the passenger side, telling himself to be cool. He didn’t want to start an argument with Eddie, even if Eddie was being unfairly irritable. He got in the car, and Eddie pulled out before he could even click his seatbelt into position, driving way to fast out of the parking lot and pulling into traffic aggressively. 

They sat in silence for the first few miles, which was an exercise in self-restraint for Richie. He didn’t think Eddie would appreciate any jokes from him right now. Something had clearly pissed him off.

Eventually, Eddie spoke. “Sorry I snapped.” He said, and Richie bit down on the urge to make light of it, to minimise it. “I’m an asshole.”

“It’s OK.” Richie said. “You’ve been an irritable asshole since you were ten years old.” 

“Fuck you, Tozier.” Eddie said, but his voice was fond. There was a long pause. “You touched on a sensitivity of mine.”

Richie could have kicked himself. Of course. Of course Eddie was sensitive to the suggestion that he might not be physically capable. He’d grown up with Sonia Kaspbrak as a mother. Sonia, who had turned every minor ailment into a major incident, who was convinced that Eddie was weak and fragile, prone to terrible asthma, and would surely die tragically young without her constant vigilance. The irony was that, if Eddie had been as weak as she made him believe, he would have been crushed by Sonia’s overbearing care. Instead, he had survived. Sonia and Richie had held each other in the same low regard. Richie knew Sonia Kaspbrak saw something in him that she found threatening. Maybe she saw through him, maybe she knew - before Richie even knew the word - that Richie was bisexual. Even as a kid, Richie had hated the way Sonia had fought to make Eddie smaller, to keep him pliant and under her control.

It turned out Richie was only partially right. Eddie started talking as they drove. In short, choppy sentences, he described his marriage to Myra. Oh boy. Richie could make an entire show of jokes based around what he was hearing. 

Eddie described a relationship based on mutual co-dependence. Eddie allowed himself to hand over the reins. It was safe and familiar for him to take the vitamins she placed next to his breakfast plate, to take a Valium when she said he was a bit uptight, to wear the clothes she picked for him and go to the places she told him to go to. She took good care of him. She was a good wife. Eddie never needed to worry about picking up his dry cleaning, or his diet. She was vigilantly observant, monitoring his health just like his mother had. Eddie had let her.

“So you married your mother.” Richie said, in the end, and Eddie shot him a glare before refocusing on the road ahead.

“I guess so.” He said eventually. “I knew what I was doing, I just didn’t know why I was doing it.”

“Story of my life.” Richie said. 

“Yeah.” Eddie said. “I googled you. I know.”

Richie faked a shocked face. “Edward. How invasive.” He said. “Did you see the pictures of my last arrest? The one in LA before the latest one?”

“I’ve seen too much.” Eddie said. “Enough to know that I’m going to have my work cut out for me if we get to court.” He swerved into the outside lane, sped past an SUV that looked like it was ferrying a bunch of kids to a soccer match, and earned himself an angry honk from the driver he passed. Eddie gave her the finger in his rear view mirror and accelerated.

“I don’t want to think about that now.” Richie said.

“We’re going to have to get ahead of it.” Eddie said. 

Richie agreed wholeheartedly. He just couldn’t face it right now. Outside the boundaries of the Derry township, the whole problem felt distant, unreal. Richie wanted to wind down the window, feel the air on his face and pretend that he and Eddie were on a road trip somewhere, heading anywhere but back to Derry. As the thought crossed his mind, he found that he’d be more than OK with running away with Eddie. Not that Eddie would ever want to run anywhere with him.

He felt a moment’s jealousy that Ben and Bev had slipped away, lightly and without consequence, together. It passed quickly. Richie didn’t have it in himself to begrudge Bev the happiness she deserved, nor Ben, who had loved Bev since they were in fifth grade. Why couldn’t he have that?

Nothing was ever that simple for Richie.

He closed his eyes, and tried to banish the thought of courts, trials and the reverberation of the axe handle up his arm, the dull thud of the impact. He thought about Eddie’s driving, paid attention to the countryside they were passing through and focussed on his breathing. Trying to be in the moment, like his many therapists had advised, so many times.

Eddie must have picked up on his sudden change in mood. He dropped the subject and faced forward, concentrating on the road. After a few miles, he said, “I can’t face going back to the Town House. It’s creepy, the service sucks and everything’s filthy. It’s disgusting. I’m going to have to find somewhere else, if I’m going to be sticking around.”

“Good luck with that.” Richie said. “I don’t think any of the hotels in town are much better.”

“You make a good point.” Eddie said. “Have you seen the state of the Travel Inn? I went there for a coffee - just to get out of the Town House - a week ago. I swear to God, I saw clear signs of cockroaches. The dust bunnies were more like dust monsters. Is there some special hospitality school in Derry, where the motto is ‘we don’t give a fuck’?”

“That could be the motto of the entire town.” Richie said. “I might adopt it as my personal words to live by.”

Eddie laughed. “Derry hasn’t got any better, has it? It was a shit hole when we were kids, and somehow it’s worse, even after the clown.”

“Still shitty.” Richie said. “I have no idea why anyone would choose to live there. The jobs are shitty, the bars are shitty, it’s still homophobic as fuck. Like, did anyone realise it’s 2016? The world’s moved on from the AIDS epidemic, but Derry’s still stuck in the eighties.”

“You’re thinking about Adrian Mellon.” Eddie said, and Richie realised he’d never told Eddie, or any of them, what he’d seen on the day IT appeared to all of them, individually. Truth be told, he didn’t like thinking about the Paul Bunyan statue at all, or his brief encounter with the ghost, or representation, or whatever it was, of Adrian Mellon. IT was trying to play on his insecurities, as IT had when he was a kid. Joke was on IT, though. Richie wasn’t ashamed of his sexual orientation, and he wasn’t scared of it anymore. 

“It wasn’t just down to the clown.” Richie said. “What happened to Adrian Mellon was also down to Derry itself. It’s toxic.”

Eddie nodded. “It must have been hard.” He said. “Growing up in Derry. For you, I mean.”

Richie shrugged his shoulders. “It could have been worse.” He said, but oh boy, what was he saying? It had been awful. He’d learned a wide and creative range of homophobic slurs in middle school, as a result of having them shouted, catcalled and whispered at him. 

Eddie must have agreed - he’d been there, after all, and had witnessed some of it - because he looked Richie straight in the eye for a beat or two, with his eyebrows raised, before turning back to the road. 

“It’s a funny thing.” Richie said. “I didn’t even realise I was bi until I was in college. I must have given off queer vibes or something.”

“Nah.” Eddie said. “I don’t think it’s that. They would have found something to pick on.”

Eddie had a point. Richie remembered that Eddie himself had experienced his own form of school-yard torture. With the added misfortune of having to go home to his mother every day. At least Richie’s parents, while not always the most attentive people on the planet, were normal.

They were now driving through downtown Derry, and Richie could see the Barrens stretching out to the left. He averted his eyes. The place still gave him the creeps.

“I guess I’ll have to rent an apartment.” Eddie said. “I’ll go crazy if I spend much more time at the Town House.”

“You could move in with me.” Richie said, because his mouth always ran faster than his brain. “I have a spare bedroom and a six month lease.”

Eddie gave Richie a surprised look. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Richie said. “Why not?”


	3. On the Docket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie moves into Richie’s apartment, Richie’s past bites him in the ass, and the legal process grinds on.

Richie may have made a big mistake.

He knew Eddie was a neat-freak, but he’d never seen it up close and twenty four hours a day before. Eddie had barely put his bags in his room, before he was in the kitchen, wearing yellow rubber gloves, dousing the place in disinfectant. He scoffed at the contents of Richie’s refrigerator, wrote a neat shopping list and sent Richie to the store, not to buy food, but to buy ingredients. When Richie returned, with some extra provisions (Cheetos and boxed mac and cheese), Eddie was scrubbing the bathroom. Richie unpacked the groceries. His cupboards had never been so full of healthy food.

There was also an unbearable tension growing in Richie. It was like he’d been transported back in time twenty five years, and was a fifteen year old again, all repressed sexuality and confusion. Eddie would not be the first straight guy about whom Richie had entertained inappropriate thoughts. He wanted to spend time with Eddie, but he also wanted to strangle him.

By the third day, Richie was regretting his choices. Eddie had been lecturing him about leaving a damp towel in the bathroom. It was a telling off that seemed to go on for hours and, to be fair, Richie did know where the laundry basket was, no he was not raised in a barn, and he didn’t expect Eddie to pick up after him. 

“You are a grown man.” Eddie said, as they stood in the bathroom. “You can’t expect me to pick up after you. I can’t live like this, Richie. I...”

“OK. OK.” Richie snapped, grabbing the towel out of Eddie’s hands. Eddie held on for a few seconds, and they wound up in a bizarre tug of war with slightly damp laundry, before Eddie let go. “I get it. Will you please give it a rest?”

“I just want you to respect my standards.” Eddie said. “We’re not freshmen in a college dorm, Richie.”

“Will you get of my dick?” Richie said, exasperated, throwing the offending towel into the hamper. A slam dunk. 

Eddie flushed scarlet, opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if he was trying on various retorts and finding them inadequate. In the end, he just turned and walked away. 

Maybe it had been a bad choice of words.

Richie left him alone for a couple of hours, before apologising, and they settled in to a slightly uneasy equilibrium. Richie didn’t complain when Eddie cleaned obsessively, and Eddie let some of Richie’s disorganisation slide, although he couldn’t stop himself picking up cups as soon as Richie put them down. And if Richie caught himself watching Eddie’s ass a bit more than was strictly appropriate between platonic friends, well, he’d keep that to himself.

***

Richie knew it was only a matter of time until Eddie made him sit down and fill in the gaps of his life story. He even understood why it was necessary, Eddie could not defend him if there was a chance that he’d be taken by surprise in court. 

“Come on.” Eddie said one day, after spending the afternoon going over the evidence that had been provided by the prosecution as disclosure. “We’re going to have to get this done.”

Richie took the notebook Eddie offered, and wrote a few dozen words about his early gigs. 

Eddie leaned over his shoulder, with a dish towel in his hands, and passed him a glass of wine. Eddie liked wine. Richie was more of a beer type of guy, but was getting into the habit of sharing Eddie’s wine a couple of nights a week. 

“This isn’t going to work.” Eddie said. “I can’t read your handwriting. You’re going to need to type it.”

Richie huffed and took out his laptop. “This is so embarrassing.” He said, opening up a document. 

“Break it up into years.” Eddie said. “Start in college - anything that happened before you were eighteen shouldn’t matter - and work forwards. Just give me the headlines. We can dig into anything that might be relevant.”

“Can’t you just speak to Steve and spare me the torture of reliving all this?” Richie said.

Eddie didn’t respond.

“I’ll only do it, if you do the same for your life.” Richie said as he started typing. If he was going to come clean, and it looked like he didn’t have much choice, he figured he could ask Eddie to do the same. He figured he could write everything down and make himself scarce while Eddie read it, if all else failed. 

“OK.” Eddie said. “I was going to cook, but we can order take-out.” He took his notebook into his room, leaving Richie on the sofa, pecking away at his laptop.

It was cathartic, summarising his highs and lows in bullet points grouped by year, and terrifying. There had been plenty of people in Richie’s life who faded away when they realised that his illness was a permanent feature, something that they couldn’t fix. Steve was the notable exception.

He filled several pages noting his mental state, his medication, inpatient treatment (that, since he’d become moderately well-known, had been attributed to rehab by the tabloids), his love affairs, break ups and break downs. He noted the trajectory of his career, his steady progress from open mics, to downtown bars, to clubs and eventually to theatres, and to the point, fairly recently, where he didn’t need to say yes to everything that was offered to him. He could be choosy. Or at least he could, before all this happened.

After a couple of hours, Eddie came out of his room and asked Richie what he wanted to order. Richie suggested pizza, and Eddie rolled his eyes, but ordered it anyway, saying that he could take some Lactaid.

When the pizza arrived, Eddie poured more wine for them both and sat down opposite Richie, with the pizza boxes open on the table between them. “Are you ready?” He said, holding out his notebook. Richie didn’t want to, but he took the notebook and passed the laptop to Eddie.

He watched Eddie, with his face illuminated by the blue light of the laptop, while he read the first few lines. He got the impression that Eddie was fighting the urge to stop reading and ask a million questions, and was grateful that Eddie stayed quiet while he read. Richie couldn’t concentrate on Eddie’s handwritten life story, and put the book down. He looked at the pizza, but he’d lost his appetite.

Eddie reached the end, where Richie had detailed the events immediately before his arrest, and closed the lid of the laptop. 

“So now you know everything.” Richie said. “Or rather, you know the Cliff Notes version. I put the important stuff in.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Eddie said, and Richie couldn’t look at him, so he fixed his gaze on the arm of the sofa, noticing a thread that was loose. He started to pull on the thread. “You could have told me.”

Richie drank his wine, and poured some more.

“Should you be drinking?” Eddie said, and Richie felt his temper flare. He’d never need to work again if he had a nickel for every well-meaning person who tried to police his behaviour and his choices. It was like his diagnosis was the only thing that defined him, that he couldn’t have normal moods, or live a normal life. He took a big sip from his wine glass.

“I can drink.” He said. “My medication amplifies the effects of alcohol, so it effects my tolerance levels.”

“I had no idea, Richie.” Eddie said, and Richie heard the sympathy in his voice, which added fuel to the fire of his annoyance.

“Why would you?” Richie said, making a conscious effort to keep his voice even and his temper in check. “I don’t walk around doing crazy shit twenty four hours a day. It’s under control. I’m under control.”

“Yes, but...” Eddie started.

“Eddie - I’ve been stable for two years now.” Richie said. “I don’t talk about this publicly - I think the reason why should be obvious - and I don’t make a habit of making big announcements to everyone I know. Like it or not, people treat you differently when they know you’ve got a mental illness.”

“I’m not just anyone Richie.” Eddie exclaimed. “I’m your lawyer, and I thought I was your friend.”

“You are.” Richie said. “I don’t tell people because it’s embarrassing. You’ve only just read my notes. You must know why.”

“I don’t think you should be embarrassed by something that you can’t control.” Eddie said. 

“Well I am.” Richie said. “You would be, too, if you were in my position.”

Eddie put his wine glass on the coffee table and sat back, rubbing his eyes. “Well this complicates things.” He said. “The prosecution are going to love this. Richie. I’m your lawyer. You should have told me right away.”

“You have no idea what it’s like.” Richie said. “Having everything you do, every emotion, every mood, seen through the prism of a diagnosis. It doesn’t define me, Eddie. My illness had nothing to do with what happened to Henry Bowers. The fact that he stabbed you and was about to kill Mike - that’s why I picked up the axe. I didn’t even know it was an axe until I was swinging it.”

“Never say that again.” Eddie said, leaning forward and putting his hands on Richie’s knees, making sure he had Richie’s full attention, surely unaware of the heat that spread through Richie’s body at the physical contact. “You picked up the axe because of what Bowers was doing to Mike. If you mention that you were motivated by what he did to me, you’re admitting to premeditation, and your defence goes out the window.”

“Gotcha.” Richie said. He knew this already, but he was starting to find it reassuring when Eddie lawyered him. 

“OK. I’m going to need you to give me chapter and verse on your current condition. When did you last see your psychiatrist? What medication are you taking now? When was your last episode?”

“Do I have to?” Richie said. And that whiny, childish side of him might work from time to time with Steve, but it didn’t fly with Eddie, who just looked back at him with his brows drawn together. It was an expression that conjured in Richie’s mind the image of Eddie as a boy, on the numerous times he’d had enough of Richie’s bullshit. “OK, fine.” Richie said. “I saw my psychiatrist on Skype a couple of weeks ago, when Steve lost his shit after I fired my other lawyer. He thought I was having an episode. But I’m fine. The doc prescribed some extra meds, which I haven’t needed - the prescription’s in my bedside table, still - because I’m fine.”

“I get it.” Eddie said. “You’re fine now. Tell me about the last time you weren’t fine.”

“I had a bout of depression about two years ago.”

“Was that when you checked into “rehab”. Eddie did little air quotes around the word. “I googled you, remember?”

“Yes.” Richie said. “I spent three weeks in hospital. Voluntarily. I was only 5150’d once. It was bad, for a while.”

“How bad?” Eddie said.

“I had a plan. If you get what I mean.” 

“Oh god, Richie.”

“It is what it is.” Richie said. “Steve saw how things were going, and he persuaded me to check in. I did what I needed to do.”

“Was there a trigger?”

“It was just before I finished a tour. I’d been away from home for about six months. If there was a trigger, it was a mixture of stress, and because I wasn’t following a good routine. I can manage it all, up to a point, and then I just tip over sometimes.”

“And how are you now?” Eddie said.

“I’m facing a murder charge. I’m stuck in Maine, and I’m living with someone who loses his shit if a dirty cup sits on the counter for too long.”

“I’m not going to stop keeping this place clean.” Eddie said. “If you want to avoid stress, you could just put your own damn cups in the dishwasher.”

“Fair.” Richie said. “But I’m not making any promises.” Eddie looked like he could strangle Richie. Another throwback to the good old days. “The meds seem to be working. I’m managing.”

“Good.” Eddie said. “That’s good.”

“I guess it’s better that you heard all this from me.” Richie said. “Rather than having it dragged out of me on the witness stand. Or have you see it first hand, if we’re going to be hanging out for a while. I don’t like keeping secrets.”

Eddie hummed noncommittally and topped up his wine glass. Later, Richie noticed that Eddie’s eyes would flick to the notebook, so far unread still sitting on the sofa. When Richie got up to go to the bathroom, Eddie must have taken the notebook back, because it was missing. Richie thought this was odd, but decided to let it go.

***

Eddie spent the next couple of weeks coaching Richie and trying to get information out of the District Attorney’s office. Steve called one day while Richie was at the grocery store with another one of Eddie’s lists, Eddie picked up the call, and by the time Richie got back, they were chatting like they’d known each other for years. Richie felt a pang of jealousy, but whether he was possessive of Eddie, or Steve, he didn’t know, and he didn’t care to examine the feeling too closely. On the positive side, Steve stopped fussing so much, knowing that Eddie could be trusted to keep Richie under control, and Richie would often hear Eddie, clearly talking to Steve about Richie.

Bill called from England from time to time, with tales of life on set and promises that he would come back if the case got to trial. Ben and Bev sent postcards from various towns out west, and Mike was subpoenaed back from Florida to appear in front of the Grand Jury. 

Mike spent the whole time he was in town, smirking about Richie and Eddie’s living arrangements. He said it was like a sleepover without adult supervision. Richie gave him the finger and Eddie told him that, if anyone was a child round here, it wasn’t him. Mike slept on Richie’s rented sofa, and reported back on the Grand Jury’s proceedings. He said that the prosecutor didn’t mention that Bowers had attacked Mike with a knife, or that Mike had been fighting for his life over several minutes. Mike did his best to describe the situation, he said, but the prosecutor kept cutting him off every time his testimony strayed from the picture the prosecutor wanted to paint. 

Richie wasn’t involved in the Grand Jury proceedings, and Eddie had to hound the Prosecutor’s office to find out what happened. It surprised no-one when Richie was indicted for first degree murder. Eddie had heard enough court gossip during his time in Derry to confirm that the DA was indeed using this case as an election boost.

The DA offered Richie a plea deal. Down from homicide to manslaughter, with a five year prison sentence. Richie declined the deal. He was adamant that there had been no crime. Eddie shared Richie’s point of view, but they still spent several hours going back and forth on the pros and cons of taking, or rejecting, the offer. Eddie took seriously his duty to present Richie with all the facts and their potential consequences.

Eddie was still fielding private calls on a regular basis. Richie sometimes heard Eddie’s raised voice coming from his room, and he noticed the tension in Eddie’s shoulders when the calls ended.

***

The first day of the trial came. 

Richie was dressed in a conservative navy suit, with a tie that had been tied by Eddie earlier. Eddie said the colour complimented his eyes. Richie’s mouth was dry and his stomach was churning. He wouldn’t admit it out loud but the stress was taking a toll, and he had finally filled the prescription that had been sitting in his bedside table for weeks. The instant release formulation helped him stay even, but was making him sluggish. He’d had to drag himself out of bed, and drank enough coffee to power a small sub-station. 

Eddie was clearly in a state of high anxiety, but avoided a head on collision with Richie’s own unease, by heading off to the court early.

Steve had flown in, and Mike had been called as a witness. Coincidentally, they were both staying at one of the nondescript but decent motels on the edge of town. Bill was wrapping up the draft of his latest book, and planned to arrive as soon as the draft had been submitted to his publisher.

All Richie needed to do now, was get in his car and drive himself to the courthouse.

***

This wasn’t the first time Richie had appeared in court as a defendant, but it was still surreal to think that his fate, his whole future, could be decided in this room, by the twelve people pulled out of the electorate to congregate as the jury. It was also strange to sit next to Eddie and watch him at work.

He was impressive.

Jury selection took all day. 

Richie and Eddie left the court-house together.

“That was a bit of an anticlimax.” Richie said, as he drove them back to the apartment.

***

The next day, Eddie and Richie sat at their table in the courthouse. Eddie had tied Richie’s tie again, slapping his hands away as he struggled with it himself. The jury was focussed on the prosecutor as he gave his opening address, and Richie looked from face to face, trying to get a sense of who might be sympathetic. No-one made eye contact with him.

The prosecutor painted a picture of Henry as a vulnerable man who had been attacked as retribution following a minor altercation earlier in the evening. Richie, he said, had left the Town House, clearly under the influence of drink, with the sole objective of tracking Henry down. He had been furious, according to the prosecution, and intent on doing harm to Henry. Richie had admitted striking the fatal blow, this was not in dispute. The prosecution, he said, would show beyond a reasonable doubt, that Richie had acted with premeditated malice and was therefore guilty of first-degree murder, that he’d fled the scene after killing Henry, in an effort to avoid suspicion. The prosecutor said he trusted the jury to listen to all the evidence and come to the right conclusion. 

Richie stole a glance at Eddie, while the prosecutor was speaking. He was making notes in his neat, orderly handwriting, and he looked confident, in control. It was only because Richie knew Eddie so well, that he could see the signs of strain on Eddie’s face. His brows were pulled down, and he was squinting, like he was getting one of his migraines.

“Are you ready?” Richie whispered.

Eddie nodded, but kept facing forward.

Richie hoped he’d done the right thing in choosing Eddie to be his lawyer.

When Eddie stood to give his opening statement, Richie’s anxiety settled into this stomach, making him feel sick. He shoved his hands under this thighs, until Eddie nudged him to move them, and he folded them together on the desk, like Eddie had coached him.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Eddie was saying, as he stood in front of the jury. “I’d like to start my opening statement with a disclosure that’s a bit unorthodox. I’ve known Richie Tozier all my life. We met in elementary school. And I’m the person who was attacked by Henry Bowers earlier on the night he died. He stabbed me through the cheek.” Eddie gestured to his face where the scar was still pink. “I’m representing Richie because I know what happened, and because I know his actions were motivated only by a desire to protect Michael Hanlon.

“I was not the only person attacked by Henry Bowers on that fateful day. Henry Bowers was not a vulnerable, intellectually challenged man as described by the prosecution. He was a dangerous psychopath who escaped from a mental institution earlier that day, killing a nurse and two guards, before making his way to Derry. Coincidentally, it was the same day that Richie and a few of his friends came back to Derry for a high school reunion. It is our argument that Bowers was on killing spree, Mike Hanlon was on his hit list and Mike is only alive today because of Richie Tozier’s actions. Richie is not guilty of murder. 

“The burden of proof rests on the prosecution. They need to prove, beyond a reasonable doubt that Richie acted maliciously and that he had a plan to cause harm to Henry Bowers. Richie Tozier did pick up an axe and he did strike Henry Bowers with it. It was a spur of the moment action, motivated only by Richie’s desire to preserve the life of Mike Hanlon. This was not a murder, ladies and gentlemen, and you must not convict unless you are certain that it was.”

Eddie sat back down.

“That was good, impressive.” Richie whispered to Eddie. He could sense the jury looking at him. That was a good sign, right? Eddie shuffled his paperwork, and the judge called a recess.

Richie had no idea how the justice system functioned, given the number of recesses on any given day. He almost spent more time in the corridor than in the courtroom. It seemed like there was a break every half-hour. He knew his perception was off, but god, the waiting around was killing him. Eddie was a whirlwind, a constant flurry of activity around him, meeting with witnesses, coaching Richie on how to sit, where to put his hands, the importance of keeping his face neutral. Steve would sit with him in the corridor, sometimes talking about the jobs he was missing out on, and sometimes just sitting in silence. Richie was grateful for the support, even if he was irritated with Steve constantly asking how he was doing. He was fine, given the circumstances.

The prosecution took its time, calling witnesses over several days to testify about Henry Bowers and about Richie’s activities on the day of he’d been killed. According to the prosecutor, Bowers was a vulnerable man, diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia who was too heavily medicated to be a threat to anyone. They called witnesses to testify that Bowers had been a model patient, with limited intellectual capacity. They skimmed over how Bowers had come to escape from the secure unit, and called the police officer who had arrested Richie back at the hospital. 

The officer testified that Richie had joked with the officers who had arrested him, that he’d confessed to hitting Bowers with an axe, and that he seemed unaffected by what had happened. He reported that Richie’s clothes had been heavily soiled when he was arrested, and that Bower’s blood had been found on Richie’s jeans, shirt and shoes. He said that Richie’s DNA had been found at the crime scene. Eddie cross-examined him. He asked whether there had been any other DNA found at the scene. The officer said that several DNA profiles had been found, but had been discounted from the investigation. He said this was because the library was a public building, and it was to be expected that a number of different profiles would be found. Eddie pressed him, asking if Mike’s DNA had been present. The officer confirmed it had been, but said that Mike lived in the apartment above the library, and also worked there. His DNA would have been there. Eddie asked what kind of biological material had yielded Mike’s DNA. The officer confirmed that Mike’s blood had been at the scene.

Then came the waitress from the Jade of the Orient. She testified that Richie’s whole group had been drinking heavily, even though it was at lunch. She herself had served Richie at least four large whiskeys, and she said he’d also been drinking beer with his meal. She told the court that Richie had thrown a chair at the wall and that he’d grabbed at a young child and yelled at him. In her opinion, Richie had been drunk and aggressive that day.

Next up was Carole, the librarian who had called 911 when she found the body. She gave evidence in a high, tremulous voice, obviously still affected by what she’d seen. She told the court that there had been signs of a struggle, but no sign of anyone else, only Henry’s body on the floor. The prosecutor asked her again, had Mike Hanlon or Richie Tozier been present at when she had discovered the body. Carole confirmed they had not.

The final witness for the prosecution was a doctor who had treated Richie during his last inpatient stay. Of all the many medical professionals Richie had been in contact with through the years, Doctor Thompson probably had the least positive impression of Richie. Richie’s heart sank, even though he’d been expecting this. Eddie had warned him that this was coming, but oh god, it was bad enough that he was on trial for murder, but the media would probably crucify him about his mental illness. He’d be lucky if he ever worked again.

Doctor Thompson took the stand and was sworn in. He outlined his credentials.

The prosecutor asked him to explain when he’d first met Richie.

“He was an inpatient at a psychiatric facility.” He said. “I was the consultant psychiatrist in charge of his care.”

Richie felt the spectators in the public gallery suck in a shocked breath collectively, and sensed all eyes on him. He sat still, stiff with embarrassment.

“When was this?”

“Two years ago.”

“Could you tell the court why Mr Tozier was admitted to your care?”

“Mr Tozier was suffering from a major depressive episode. He has bipolar disorder, with co-morbid alcohol and drug addiction. He was admitted to the facility voluntarily because he was actively suicidal.”

“For the benefit of the jury, could you explain the diagnosis?”

“Bipolar disorder is a mood disorder. Sufferers experience extreme moods, most commonly depressive episodes, like regular depression, and manic periods. Mania is typically experienced as a period of extremely high energy, and can lead to high-risk behaviour. It is a lifelong condition that requires medication.”

“Do you know Mr Tozier’s history with the illness?”

“His history shows that he was diagnosed at age 18, when he was involuntarily admitted to hospital during a manic episode. He was prescribed Lithium with an anti-depressant. He has been hospitalised a further six times since then, most recently two years ago.”

Richie wished he had eyes at the back of his head. He pictured the journalists, hell, he pictured everyone in the public gallery, getting straight onto Twitter, to live-tweet this humiliating development.

“And what was your impression of Mr Tozier, while he was under your care?”

“Mr Tozier was extremely unwell when he was admitted. He had been under a lot of stress and had not been following the routine his doctors recommended to help him manage his condition. He was self-medicating with recreational drugs and alcohol. He did not fully embrace the therapeutic experience, and was resistant to some elements of his treatment. Specifically, he was unwilling to engage with the addiction treatment I recommended. In my opinion, he engaged just enough to stablise his depression, and he discharged himself against medical advice.”

‘One of our earlier witnesses described an incident, earlier in the day in question.” The prosecutor checked his notes, and quoted the waitress. “She said that Mr Tozier had been drinking heavily, that he smashed a chair against the wall and then got into an altercation with a child, who was hoping to get a photo with him. Does this sound like the type of behaviour that would be characteristic of a manic state?”

“It is possible, yes.”

“If Mr Tozier had been in a manic state that day, would he have been in control of his behaviour when he encountered Mr Bowers?”

“Objection.” Eddie said. “The question calls for the witness to hypothesise. Doctor Thompson did not examine Mr Tozier on or around the time in question, and cannot speak to his mood at the time.”

The judge sustained Eddie’s objection. The prosecutor regrouped, and said, “In general terms, are people experiencing a manic state in control of their actions?”

“It depends.” Dr Thompson said. “Mania can trigger psychosis, where the patient loses touch with reality. This is uncommon, and typically occurs when a manic state goes untreated for a long period of time. Most of the time, people experiencing mania are in control of their actions, although their judgement can be significantly impaired.”

“Can you give the court any specific examples in Mr Tozier’s medical history when he demonstrated impaired judgement in a manic state?”

Eddie objected again, arguing that the question was irrelevant. This time the judge over-ruled the objection, and instructed the witness to answer the question.

Dr Thompson checked his notes. “Mr Tozier has a history of high risk behaviour, which is consistent with his documented manic episodes. He has engaged in high risk sexual behaviour, gambling, ill-advised investments. He has been fired, and has been arrested several times.”

Richie wanted to sink into his chair, and cover his face with his hands. Only Eddie’s warnings about how to present himself, stopped him. Somehow the prospect of disappointing Eddie outweighed the humiliation of hearing all this in open court.

“Has he ever been violent?”

“According to his medical records, he was involved in a violent altercation immediately prior to his first psychiatric admission. I am not aware of any other violent behaviour.”

The prosecutor sat down, leaving the way open for Eddie’s cross examination.

“Dr Thompson.” Eddie said. “How long was Mr Tozier under your care?”

“Six weeks.”

“So you treated him for six weeks, over two years ago?”

“That‘s right.”

“And yet you’re presenting yourself as an expert on his medical history and his current condition?”

“No. I wouldn’t claim to know anything about his current condition.”

Eddie thanked him and sat back down. The judge called a recess.

Frankly, Richie was hoping for more of a take-down. “What the hell was that?” He hissed at Eddie as they left the courtroom. 

Eddie waited until they were outside. “Sometimes you don’t need to hit the jury over the head with evidence. You just need to sow the seeds of uncertainty.”

Richie rolled his eyes. He was feeling raw, embarrassed and furious. This entire process was bullshit. Dr Thompson was a quack, who had wanted Richie to engage with a twelve-step programme. Richie had discharged himself as soon as his medication had stabilised his depression, and he may have had some choice words for Dr Thompson. With hindsight, he could have been more tactful.

Steve sat down next to Richie.

“How bad was that from an outside perspective?” Richie said. “Because it felt like I was stripped naked out there.”

“Don’t look at Twitter.” Steve said, taking Richie’s phone out of his hand as he started to do just that. “Seriously, Richie. Don’t.” He pocketed Richie’s phone. “Let’s get lunch.”

“I don’t feel like eating.” Richie said. “I feel like drinking. A lot.”

“I doubt that would go down well with the jury.” Steve said.

***

Later, Steve and Mike had dinner at the apartment, then left, leaving Eddie and Richie alone.

“How are you doing?” Eddie said, as he meticulously rinsed each plate before loading it into the dishwasher. 

Richie, reclined on the sofa, with one arm over his eyes and the end of his too-long legs hanging over the edge. “Why do you insist on using plates, Eddie? It was Chinese take-out. Normal people eat out of the cartons.”

“Don’t deflect.” Eddie said, closing the dishwasher hard enough to make the plates rattle, before pulling on his rubber gloves and disinfecting the sink and counters. 

Richie peered over the top of the sofa to watch Eddie cleaning. Eddie had his back to Richie. Richie could see the yellow of the gloves rising above his elbows, and was mesmerised by the motion of him scrubbing for a few seconds, before he checked himself and looked away. He shouldn’t be looking at Eddie’s ass. 

“I said how are you doing?” Eddie said, turning to face Richie with a bottle of cleaning fluid in one hand, and a scrubber in the other. “Today was tough.”

Richie flopped back on the sofa. He didn’t want to talk about it. “I’ll survive.” He said, eventually.

“I’m here if you want to talk about it.” Eddie said.

Richie nodded, before pulling himself up from the sofa. He was grateful for Eddie’s concern. He was. But he didn’t want to spend any more time thinking about what had happened today. It was too humiliating. Richie could feel his cheeks heating up with embarrassment. “I’m going for a smoke.” He said. Eddie rolled his eyes in Richie’s direction but turned back to his cleaning.

It was cold outside. Richie smoked quickly, sucking down the nicotine so intensely that the paper burned faster than the tobacco, leaving long red embers. He didn’t linger on the sidewalk once he’d crushed out the butt, and headed back inside.

He heard Eddie’s raised voice, as he was putting his key in the door, muffled, but clearly angry.

“I’m not doing this anymore Myra.” Richie heard Eddie say. “We keep going round and round and round, and nothing changes.” There was a pause. “No. Myra. Stop. I’m not going to be manipulated.” Another, longer, pause. “I don’t care!” Eddie said loud enough that Richie could hear every syllable. “I don’t care anymore, Myra. You need to understand that I’ve moved on.” Richie could hear Eddie rattling around in the kitchen, opening and slamming shut cupboards. “OK. Myra. OK. There is someone else. Are you happy now?”

Richie stood still, not wanting to step on any creaky floorboards that would give him away, but also frozen by his surprise. Where had Eddie met someone else? It must be someone in New York, Richie thought, because the only women Eddie had seen in Derry (as far as Richie knew, anyway) were the hospital staff, his physiotherapist and Beverley. He couldn’t be carrying a torch for Bev, could he? 

Richie lingered in the hallway for a few minutes, not wanting Eddie to know that his conversation had been overheard. When he went inside, Eddie had moved on to the bathroom, and was cleaning like his life depended on it. Richie stood in the doorway, watching Eddie he scrubbed the basin, feeling disoriented, as if Eddie had betrayed him somehow. It made no sense, because Eddie owed him nothing other than friendship. Richie knew this. He knew he had no right to feel jealous. It was bordering on creepy.

Nevertheless, Richie made a lame excuse about having a headache and went to his room. He laid on his bed, and yes, that emotion that felt like it was boiling under his skin was jealousy. A hot kind of hurt burned behind his eyes. His stomach lurched, as if he were at the precipice of a rollercoaster. His palms were clammy. Richie took off his glasses, and lay with his face buried in his pillow.

He needed to get a grip. He needed to get himself under control. 

He had no right to be feeling this way.


	4. Collateral Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie mounts his defence and, in a callback to middle school, a game of Truth or Dare gets out of hand.

Mike was Eddie’s first witness.

He described how he’d been stacking books in the library out of hours when Bowers, wearing blood stained clothes, and giving Mike the impression that he was not the first person to have run into Bowers that day. Bowers had attacked him. Mike had been taken by surprise, and it took him several moments before he recognised Bowers as the same person he’d been to elementary school with. Mike tried to fight Bowers off, using whatever was at hand. He estimated that he’d been fighting for several minutes when Richie had arrived at the library. Bowers was on top of him, holding a large knife, and screaming insults Mike hadn’t heard since childhood. Eddie asked him to be specific. Mike looked acutely uncomfortable, but relayed, in a dull monotone, the many racist slurs Bowers had thrown at him over the years, starting in elementary school. 

Richie noticed that several members of the jury looked as uncomfortable as Mike did. Each of the Losers had childhood history with Bowers, and each of them would have said, back then, that Bowers hated them most of all. It was only now, sitting in the courtroom, hearing Mike talk about his many run ins with Bower as a kid, that Richie realised that Bowers had truly hated Mike. It didn’t take much to work out why. For the first time, Richie felt a pang of sympathy for Bowers. A child who felt hate like that was the result of nurture, not nature.

Mike described the moment when he saw Richie enter the library. He had screamed for help, and had used the distraction to try to push Bowers off of him. This had enraged Bowers even more, and he had overpowered Mike, raising the knife and screaming racial expletives.

“What do you think would have happened if Mr Tozier hadn’t intervened at that moment?” Eddie asked.

“He would have killed me.” Mike said. “I’m sure of it.”

“What did Mr Tozier do?”

“I saw him run towards us.” Mike said. “It was chaotic, and I was trying to hold Bowers’ arm so he couldn’t stab me. I didn’t see what Mr Tozier picked up, but I could tell he just grabbed the nearest thing. He hit Bowers once.”

“Then what happened?” 

“Bowers collapsed on top of me.” Mike said. “I pushed him off. At first I thought he’d been knocked unconscious. Then I saw the blood and I realised Bowers was dead.”

“I just want to be clear, Mr Hanlon.” Eddie said. “How many times did Mr Tozier hit Mr Bowers?”

“Once.” Mike said.

“Mr Hanlon is it true that you had not seen Mr Tozier in over twenty years prior to your reunion meeting that day?”

“Yes, that’s true.”

Eddie had no further questions, so the prosecutor stood up to cross examine Mike. Richie sat stiffly in his chair.

The first few questions were soft, asking Mike to recount the events of that day in more detail. He was asked about his relationship with Richie and about what had happened earlier that day. He followed the instructions Eddie had given him about the cross examination. 

“According to another witness, Mr Hanlon, you were present with Mr Tozier at the Jade of the Orient earlier that day?”

“Yes.” Mike said. 

“How much did Mr Tozier have to drink at lunch that day?” 

“I wasn’t watching what he was drinking.” Mike said. “So I couldn’t be certain.”

“How much did you have to drink?”

“One beer.” Mike said. “I was driving.”

“Do you know what led to Mr Tozier throwing a chair at the wall?”

“I don’t recall.” Mike said.

“But you did see him throw a chair at the wall?” The prosecutor said. 

“Yes.” Mike said.

“Do you know why he assaulted a child in the lobby?”

“Objection!” Eddie said. “We have heard no evidence to suggest that Mr Tozier assaulted a child.”

“I’ll rephrase.” The prosecutor said. “Do you know why he shouted at a child in the lobby?”

“I don’t know.” Mike said. 

“Did you notice anything else unusual about Mr Tozier’s mood or his demeanour that day?”

“No.” 

“But you hadn’t seen him since High School?” The prosecutor said. 

“That’s right.” Mike said.

“So you wouldn’t be attuned to his moods?”

“I was unaware of his illness until I saw the news from these proceedings on Twitter.” Mike said. “So no, I was not attuned to his moods. He seemed normal to me.”

“But you’re not a doctor, are you, Mr Hanlon?”

“No, sir.” Mike said. “I’m a librarian.”

“Yes, I know.” The prosecutor. “You know Carole Danner quite well?”

“Yes. We’ve worked together for some years now.”

“Can you tell me, Mr Hanlon, why you left the scene of Mr Bowers’ murder without notifying the authorities, and why you allowed Ms Danner - someone you know well, someone you’ve worked with for years - to suffer the trauma of discovering his corpse the following day?”

Ah, the thousand dollar question. Why had they left the scene without reporting the incident to police? What, Richie thought, would happen if Mike just told the truth? That they’d gone directly from the library to the house on Neibolt Street and into the sewers? Richie imagined both of them locked up in the psych ward. Maybe they’d be lucky and get adjoining rooms.

The memory-fade that had started hours after the house collapsed in on itself, creating a sink hole that dragged in half of Neibolt Street, had persisted. Richie remembered going down into the sewers, and he remembered carrying Eddie out. Everything in between was indistinct. At best hazy; at worst, completely blank. Even if he wanted to be honest about that night, and what happened after the events at the library, he had nothing. Mike said the same.

“Richie, Mr Tozier, got a call.” Mike said. “From one of our friends that Mr Kaspbrak had been involved in an accident and had been critically injured. We rushed to him.”

Mike didn’t embellish the story, just like he and Eddie had planned. Eddie had said, to both of them as they ate Thai take-out at the apartment, that they should keep their answers short. To the point and as close to the truth as possible. He had pointed his chopsticks at Richie and warned him, if he did take the stand, he needed to keep his bullshit under control. Richie had fake swooned, and had told Eddie he’d never felt so “seen”. This had earned him a fuck you. He’d noticed Eddie’s cheeks had turned pink, so he’d counted it as a win.

The prosecutor sat down, and it was Eddie’s turn on the redirect.

“Mr Hanlon.” Eddie said. “I just have one more question. Do you know why Mr Tozier was at the library that night?”

“We were going out for dinner.” Mike said. “And we made plans to meet at the library.”

“No further questions.” Eddie said, sitting back down next to him. Richie was relieved when the judge adjourned the testimony until the next day.

***

Eddie refused to talk about the case. He said it wouldn’t be helpful to have everyone’s input and ideas at this stage, and he needed to keep his mind clear. He buried himself in pages of notes, transcripts and evidence, that were, by now, spread across the whole living room.

Mike and Richie were slouched on the sofa, while Eddie worked at the dining table. Steve was busting a gut trying to control the press, and was back at his motel, fielding calls. Steve said that there had been suspiciously little interest so far (Twitter trend notwithstanding), like there was some kind of invisible filter over Derry, keeping most of the news inside the town limits.

“What do you think, Mike?” Richie said. “Should I be out on the town, enjoying my last days of freedom?”

“I’m surprised they’ve taken it this far.” Mike said. 

Richie hummed in agreement. 

“I don’t think the optics of you celebrating in a bar would help your case.” Mike said. “I know there’s not as much media coverage as there might be, but you can bet someone would post pictures. There’s nothing stopping us hitting up the liquor store. It’s Friday, so you won’t have to sit in court hungover.”

“That’s an excellent idea, Michael.” Richie said, tossing his car keys to Mike.

Mike came back with a bottle of whiskey, a twelve pack of beer and some gin and prune juice for Eddie.

“You shouldn’t be drinking.” Eddie said, looking up from his paperwork, bleary eyed.

“OK dad.” Richie said. “Mike got you something.” He wiggled the prune juice in Eddie’s direction. “It might help you get the stick out of your ass.”

“Excuse me for trying to keep you out of jail, asshole.” Eddie said, but he put down his pen and joined Mike and Richie on the sofa, sitting between the two of them. Mike raised his eyebrows in Richie’s direction - over the top of Eddie’s head - and Richie shrugged, pouring a generous slug of gin in a tumbler and finishing it off with prune juice.

Eddie took the drink. “OK.” He said. “Since we’re doing this, I want to set some ground rules. No talking about the case. And no talking about IT. I don’t want this to turn into a pity party.”

Mike and Richie clinked their glasses in agreement.

They wound up talking about Mike’s spell in Florida for a while, and gossiped lightly about Ben and Bev’s road trip. Bill still hadn’t made it out of England - Richie suspected Audra might be throwing up obstacles. Then the conversation turned to Stan and how much they all missed him.

“We need to lighten this mood.” Richie said, after they sat in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time, each lost in their thoughts. “I can cry about everything bad that’s happened when I’m spending the next fifteen to twenty years in prison.” He poured himself another drink, with the clear impression that Eddie was watching and monitoring his alcohol intake, and tried to shake of the sombre mood. “Truth or dare?”

“We’re forty years old, Richie.” Eddie said. “Not fourteen.”

“Live a little, Eds.” Richie said, waving down Eddie’s reflexive complaint about the nickname. “I’ll let you go first.”

“Oh boy, this isn’t going to end well.” Mike said, going to the fridge to pick up another beer and migrating to the loveseat opposite, leaving Richie and Eddie sitting on the sofa. 

Eddie got that look on his face, the one Richie remembered well from their childhood. It was a face that promised that Eddie would rise to any challenge and would absolutely never back down. Bring it on, Richie thought. He was the king of Truth or Dare.

“Fine.” Eddie said. “Richie, truth or dare?”

“Dare.” Richie said. “Do your worst, Kaspbrak.”

“Oh boy.” Mike said, popping the tab on another beer - he was really knocking them back - as he leaned back in his chair with a smug look.

“OK.” Eddie said. “I dare you to give me your phone, unlocked.”

Richie was instantly suspicious. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to send a message to everyone in your contacts list.” Eddie said.

Richie took his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it with FaceID and tossed it to Eddie. “Hah.” He said. “Joke’s on you. There are only eight people in my contacts list, and two of you are right here.” In response to Mike’s incredulous look, Richie said, “I haven’t uploaded from my back-up yet. I’m kind of enjoying being off the grid.”

Eddie took the phone and started tapping away.

“Isn’t he cute?” Richie said to Mike. “Look at how he texts with two fingers.”

Eddie gave Richie the finger, and then there was the swoosh of a sent message. 

Mike’s phone pinged, and he took it out to read the text. He snorted, and showed Eddie the phone, angling it so that Richie couldn’t see it. “Oh god, Eddie.”

Mike was outright laughing now, curling up with mirth and rubbing tears from his eyes. “I can’t believe you did this, Eddie.” He read something on his phone, made eye contact with Eddie, and set off laughing again.

“What is it?” Richie said. 

“I sent everyone a link to your secret Tumblr account.” Eddie said, catching the giggles from Mike. Richie’s phone pinged with a few incoming messages, which Eddie evidently found hilarious.

“What?” Richie said. “How did you know about that? Oh god. You sent it to Steve. And my parents!”

Eddie and Mike took several minutes to get themselves under control. Richie downed his drink and poured another. Eddie and Mike would calm down, then one of them would find something new, show it to the other one, and they’d be off again, giggling like schoolgirls. Richie had to admit, his Tumblr was embarrassing. Eddie had pulled off a good one. And Richie would now need to find a way to explain his fan account to his conservative, very Catholic, mother. Eddie would need to brace himself for Richie’s revenge. Richie would not lose to Edward Kaspbrak. 

“OK. You’ve had your fill of my Tumblr.” He said. “It’s my turn.” 

There were a few rounds of Truth or Dare. Mike opted for Truth, and had to provide an uncensored account of his time in Florida. Mike dared Eddie to drink an evil concoction involving whiskey, gin tabasco sauce, prune juice, and a sprinkling of every spice in the kitchen. Richie dared Mike to post his ugliest selfie as his Facebook profile picture. Eddie asked Richie to confirm whether he’d had a bigger crush on Beverley or on Bill when they were kids. Richie refused to answer.

The drinks kept flowing. Eddie started mixing up his words, and Mike swayed as he walked back and forth from the refrigerator to the chair. The three of them were moving from tipsy towards intoxicated.

“It’s getting late.” Mike said, his long legs hooked over the arm of his chair. “This is the last one from me.” Mike said. “Eddie. Truth or Dare?”

“Dare.” Eddie said.

Mike paused for a moment, Richie thought he was considering his next words carefully. “I dare you to kiss Richie.”

A panicked look passed over Eddie’s face, which Richie, frankly, found a bit insulting. He knew Eddie was straight, but there was no need for homophobia. A quick peck on the lips wouldn’t do any harm. He was about to say something when Eddie got that ‘won’t back down’ look on his face, swung his leg over Richie’s and settled on Richie’s thighs. Eddie braced himself with one had on the wall next to Richie’s head and the other clenched in a fist by his side, while Richie’s hands found their way to Eddie’s knees.

Richie blinked behind his glasses, as Eddie leaned down to brush his lips against Richie’s, tentatively. Richie’s fingers flexed on Eddie’s knees, and Eddie’s hand landed on Richie’s shoulder, with a hard grip. Richie felt the contact burn through his T-shirt. Eddie kissed him again, firmly and with more confidence. He tasted of juniper and his skin smelled of citrus. His lips were soft and Richie was stunned senseless, barely kissing back, until Eddie’s hand migrated from his shoulder to his cheek, guiding his face into a better angle, and suddenly - and without a conscious decision from Richie - they were making out. Richie felt his pulse skyrocket as Eddie’s teeth nipped his lips and soothed the hurt away with his tongue. Richie nipped back, fighting the urge to pull Eddie closer.

Mike coughed, and Eddie broke away. He moved back to his position on the sofa next to Richie. His face was flushed from his hair line to his chin, and the blush spread down his neck. Richie wiped his glasses on the hem of his T-shirt, wondering if he looked as dishevelled as Eddie. If Richie had known that he only needed to issue a dare to get Eddie to kiss him, he might have done it years ago. And also, what the fuck?

Teenage Richie would be flying high from a kiss like that and from Eddie, no less, Richie thought. Adult Richie’s cynical and war-damaged heart, urged caution. He couldn’t lose his head over one kiss, the result of a dare.

“On that note.” Mike said. “I’m going to head back to the motel.”

Mike summoned an Uber, pulled on his jacket and left with a wave and a promise to meet up later.

Richie looked at Eddie, turning on the sofa so they were face to face, not side to side. “What was that?” He asked.

“Truth or dare?” Eddie said in response. 

Eddie wasn’t going to give him a straight answer. Richie felt a pang of disappointment. “Truth.” He said.

“Did you like it?” Eddie said. “The kiss, I mean.”

“Yes.” Richie said, and because he never could keep his mouth under control, he continued, “It was my teenage wet dream come true.”

“Shut up.” Eddie said, turning pink again, and avoiding Richie’s eye contact. He busied his hands pouring them both another drink. “Better make this our last drink.” Eddie said. “Or tomorrow will be a write off and I still have some prep to do.”

Richie wasn’t surprised by Eddie’s sudden bashfulness. He was probably questioning the ‘do or die’ impulse that caused him to meet Mike’s challenge and kiss Richie in the first place. He was probably awash with drunken regret.

“One last round.” Richie said, not wanting Eddie to go to bed just yet. Eddie chose truth. Richie thought for a moment, and teetered on the brink of asking who Eddie was seeing now that things were over with Myra. Instead, he asked “What’s going on back in New York?” 

The question seemed to sober Eddie up instantly. He took a deep breath, turning to face Richie. Richie was struck with an urge to reach out and touch him. It was the alcohol, he was sure of it, and Richie had more self-control (most of the time)than to act on a drunken impulse. He sat still, gripping his whiskey tumbler, waiting to see if Eddie would answer or forfeit the question. The point was somewhat moot, as Richie had lost track of the score several rounds back.

“The divorce isn’t going well.” Eddie said, after a silence that had stretched for several seconds. “Myra won’t agree to a no-fault divorce. And the bank has been pressuring me to go back to New York, now that I’m medically clear to work.”

Richie nodded. 

“She wants to keep everything.” Eddie said. “I’ve said she can keep the house and half of everything else, but she wants more.”

“Ouch.” Richie said. 

“She’s not a bad person. I think she’s hurting. She’s built her whole life around me, and she wasn’t expecting me to run back to Derry out of the blue, disappear for weeks while I was in hospital, and then refuse to come home.” Eddie paused. “God, I sound like an asshole.”

“Are you sure you’re making the right decision?” Richie said. “You’ve been through a lot this year. Maybe you need to take a bit more time to think things through?”

“That’s what she said.” Eddie said. “But, no. I don’t need more time. A life threatening injury is an effective method of creating clarity.”

Richie couldn’t argue with that. He thought about all the follow up questions he wanted to ask Eddie. He wanted to know if Eddie had seen the similarities between his wife and his mother when he married her. He wanted to know what had been going on in Eddie’s head in the hospital. He wanted to know what had possessed Eddie to offer his services as Richie’s lawyer. Most of all, he wanted to know who Eddie was in love with. He knew it wouldn’t be fair to Eddie to grill him while they were both on the edge of drunkenness. 

Eddie hauled himself off of the sofa and loaded some dirty glasses into the dishwasher, because god forbid he left a mess in his own living room.

“One more question.” Eddie said, from the doorway.

“Sure.” Richie said.

“What are you going to do when this is all over?”

“You mean, if I’m not in prison for the next twenty years?” Eddie nodded. “It’ll be difficult to go back the same life. I can’t see myself on another country-wide tour. I might look at a career change - I’d make a good teacher.”

“You’d be a terrible teacher.” Eddie said. “You’d spend all of your energy on making jokes and trying to get the kids to love you. Good night Richie.” Eddie disappeared into his room, leaving Richie alone with his whiskey and the sense memory of Eddie in his lap, kissing him.

Richie eventually hauled his drunk ass off the sofa and started cleaning up. It would make Eddie happy if he showed a bit of initiative with the housekeeping, and he found he wanted Eddie to be happy. He didn’t know what to think about what had just happened between them. His head was urging caution. It had been a dare, and Eddie was straight, still married and in the throes of a difficult divorce. All of these factors tipped the scale towards a terrible mistake. But his heart was dancing a jig in his chest.

He put the empty bottles in the recycling, and lined up the half-full bottles on the kitchen counter, and then he saw it, tucked into a small gap beside the microwave. The little blue notebook which Eddie had used to write his life story as a quid pro quo when he made Richie bare all his secrets. Richie ran his fingers down the spine.

He shouldn’t read it.

Eddie had taken it back. He clearly didn’t want Richie to read whatever was written down. 

It would be wrong to look.

But Eddie had left the book in the kitchen, where Richie was bound to see it (the microwave, along with the coffee machine, was one of the few kitchen appliances that Richie actually used).

Richie was not known for his stellar decision-making, especially when alcohol was involved. He slid the book out of the gap, holding it closed between his palms. Then he opened it, and started reading.

Eddie wrote about his childhood, his relationship with his mother and, surprisingly to Richie, about the death of his father, when Eddie was five. Richie didn’t know much about Eddie’s dad. He wrote that his mother had changed after his father died, spent all of her energy keeping him safe, protected and cocooned (or crushed) by her love. He wrote about how he had hero-worshipped Bill when they were kids. Richie felt irrationally jealous.

Richie made a coffee, and sat back down on the sofa.

Eddie described what it was like to go to college in New York, still living with his mother, and how he met Myra while he was at law school in the city. His handwriting was neat, the margins straight, and his writing style was factual as he described how he’d proposed to Myra three months after his mother died. Richie didn’t need to be a psychologist to read between the lines and figure out what had been going on in Eddie’s head at the time. He’d replaced his caretaker mother, with a caretaker wife.

Eddie’s married life was strikingly similar to his life as a son. It was a series of vitamins and dietary supplements set out on a plate next to his egg white omelette breakfast, regularly scheduled doctor’s appointments and general oversight of his affairs, so that Eddie didn’t need to worry about anything. So he focussed on his career, first in corporate law, then in risk management (not that Richie knew what this really was).

Richie felt a certain sympathy. Even though his own life was a train-wreck by comparison, he felt sorry that Eddie’s adult life had unconsciously mirrored his dysfunctional childhood. 

Then Eddie described the moment Mike called. How he’d crashed his car, and stood at the roadside exchanging insurance information with an irate cab driver, while his mind was reeling from the shock of recalling fifteen years of repressed memories. He described how he’d felt waking up in the hospital, feeling like everything had changed. 

The last line described how Eddie had felt, at the Chinese restaurant, when they’d all been together. He’d been in awe of Bev’s luminescence, struck by Ben’s transformation, and that Bill - always the tallest of their group as children - wasn’t much taller than Eddie. He wrote that Richie was exactly the same as he’d been as a kid; loud mouthed, bespectacled, badly dressed, only taller than he remembered.

Richie felt his hope shatter. Eddie obviously saw him as an immature mess. The kiss meant nothing.

***  
Next day, Richie emerged from his room, bleary eyed and hungover, and headed straight for the coffee machine. Eddie was already at his makeshift desk, looking as rough as Richie felt. He was wearing sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt, and his hair was unstyled and unruly. Richie poured himself a coffee, and watched Eddie as he shuffled papers before putting his head in his hands. It didn’t look easy dealing with legal paperwork while suffering from a hangover.

“Remind me never to drink with you again.” Eddie said. “You and Mike are bad influences.”

“I can’t help it.” Richie said. “I’ve been a bad influence on you since fifth grade.”

“True.” Eddie said. “And didn’t my Mom hate you for it?”

“It was all an act.” Richie said. “Me and your Mom...”

“Don’t.” Eddie said. And for once, Richie listened, he bit down on the yo mama joke. Eddie got up and refilled his cup, brushing past Richie on his way to the coffee pot. “I wanted to talk to you about last night.”

Richie had known this was coming. Of course it was coming. He wasn’t sure if he had the stomach for what Eddie was about to stay. It wasn’t like he’d had high hopes, or anything, even before he’d read the notebook, but it was never cool to be rejected, even if the rejection was fully anticipated, and understandable. Why would anyone want to be involved in his train-wreck of a life? Especially Eddie, who had enough of his own problems.

“No need.” Richie said, in a pre-emotive strike, using his most ridiculous Irish cop accent. “Draw a line under it. Chalk all of last night up to drunken shenanigans and say no more about it.”

Eddie didn’t argue. He just nodded and turned back to his paperwork.

Richie knew he’d done the right thing. But he couldn’t deny that he felt a little crappy. He took himself outside for a smoke. 

***

On Monday, they were back in court.

Richie was relieved to be out of the apartment. Eddie had been in a weird mood all Sunday, and Richie felt on edge. He hoped that the trial would be over within a matter of days, and then he’d have to wait for a verdict.

He stood outside the courtroom, leaning against the brickwork and chain smoking. Eddie was inside. Bill had got stuck in England. Probably Audra’s intervention, again, although Bill didn’t say so. He’d said something about needing to re-write the ending of his latest manuscript.

If Richie hadn’t turned up at the library in time, Mike would be dead. He was sure of it. He shouldn’t even be on trial. The Derry Police should have given him a pat on the back for saving one of their citizens, and maybe a parade for ridding the world of Bowers’ craziness. Maybe the outcome would have been different, if it had been someone else, someone other than Mike. 

Richie knew a bit of what life had been like for Mike, when they were kids. He knew that Mike worked hard on the farm, and only had limited time for the kind of things Richie considered normal kid-stuff. It was only much later, recently in fact, that Richie had realised that Mike’s dad kept him busy on the farm so that he would be safe, away from the people of Derry, who had never been kind to the Hanlons. He knew that Mike had never been invited to a birthday party or a sleepover. That some parents - Eddie’s mom, Bev’s dad, and, surprisingly, Ben’s mom - had expressly forbidden their children from being friends with Mike.

He knew that Mike experienced what Richie now knew to be micro-aggressions every day of his life, and he knew that Mike had been the target of the schoolyard bullies, perhaps more than any of the others. Richie wondered what it was like for Mike, being virtually the only Black kid in town.

And he wondered what it was like for Mike, now, being one of a handful of Black man in Derry. He wondered what would have happened if it had been Mike who had struck the fatal blow against Bowers.

It was better that it was Richie standing trial.

Richie would feel a lot less stressed if he had confidence that the justice system worked. But he was at the mercy of a DA who was chasing re-election, and who was looking to make an example of a minor celebrity. At the mercy of a police force that had done nothing, historically and recently, to protect the children of the city, but which had come down hard on a clear case of self defence, and a justice system that had allowed the killers of Adrian Mellon to plead down to involuntary manslaughter. Of all the logical inconsistencies that Richie had faced in his journey to his trial for murder, that was the one that stung the most. That he was being judged (potentially judged, he reminded himself, the jury still had to hear more evidence) more harshly than those murderous homophobic bigots.

Eddie came out of the courthouse, saw Richie standing on the corner and rolled his eyes. “C’mon.” He called. “Unless you want to add contempt of court to your list of charges.”

Richie took one last drag of his cigarette, then pitched it.

***  
“You don’t have the balls for Tinder, Eddie.” Richie said, as they entered the apartment together, and at the tail end of a discussion about the inevitability of ending up on dating sites, now that Eddie was, like Richie, a single guy in his forties. “It’s OK. You are who you are.” Eddie quirked an eyebrow, as he tossed his briefcase onto the sofa and went straight to refrigerator for a beer. “Grindr’s the real killer though.” Richie said, shrugging off his suit jacket and fumbling his tie over his head, making a mess of his hair. “Not that you’d be interested in Grindr.”

“Why not?” Eddie said.

“It’s a gay hook-up site.” Richie said.

“I know that.” Eddie popped the cap off a bottle of beer and passed one to Richie. “I haven’t been living under a rock.”

“Oh ho.” Richie said. “Is there something you want to tell me, Eds? Have you got a secret Grindr account?”

“I might.” Eddie said, laughing at the faux-shocked face Richie made. 

“So if I logged on right now, you’d pop up in my neighbourhood?” Richie said, wiggling his phone as he walked around the counter to stand in front of Eddie. Was Eddie trying to goad him into a round of gay chicken? 

“If you did, I’d definitely swipe right.” Eddie said, taking a swig of his beer, and meeting Richie’s, slightly shocked, gaze.

Oh, it was on. Two could play at this game. Moments later, Richie was in Eddie’s space, crowding him against the refrigerator. Eddie was looking up at him, with a hectic blush across his cheeks. Richie leaned in close in a dare, a challenge, fully expecting Eddie to pull back.

Eddie didn’t pull back. He leaned forward into Richie’s space, forcing Richie to look down at him. If there had been a challenge in Richie’s actions, there was outright provocation now in Eddie’s eyes. “Go on then.” Eddie said, putting his beer bottle on the counter, and leaning back.

This was a terrible idea.

But when had Richie been able to resist Eddie’s terrible ideas? 

Richie’s hands gripped Eddie’s lapel, and pulled him close, crushing their mouths together. Their teeth clashed painfully, until Eddie tilted his head and suddenly they were kissing, with no finesse, just pressure, and hunger and, on Richie’s part at least, a frantic, building tension.

Richie kissed Eddie like it was his first and last kiss. He kissed like Eddie’s lips were water and his tongue was oxygen, the two fundamental things keeping Richie alive. The intensity surprised him, and drove him to kiss Eddie deeper.

Eddie’s hands landed on Richie’s shoulders, trailing scorching heat through the cotton of Richie’s button down. He bit down lightly on Eddie’s bottom lip and grabbed his hips, pulling them flush together. Richie could feel Eddie’s erection through his pants. 

God, Eddie really was into this. 

Richie was starting to become overwhelmed. His brain went completely offline. He wanted to carry on kissing Eddie forever. He wanted to get his hands all over Eddie’s skin. He wanted Eddie to hold him down and fuck him. Instead, he broke their kiss and sank to his knees. 

Eddie’s head thunked against the refrigerator, as Richie’s hands skimmed his thighs.

The oxygen started to come back to Richie’s brain. What was he doing? There were so many good reasons to take a breath, and get some more space between him and Eddie. Eddie wasn’t gay. Eddie was still married. Richie was a hot mess, and was facing a murder charge. This was a bad idea.

He should stop.

Then Richie’s hands reached the top of Eddie’s thighs and Eddie’s hips twitched forward. With unsteady fingers, Richie slowly unzipped Eddie’s pants. Eddie didn’t stop him. He was looking down at Richie with wide, shocked, eyes. He probably saw the same expression on Richie’s face reflected back at him.

Richie leaned forward and breathed in the musky citrus scent of Eddie’s skin, Eddie’s cock jerked in his boxers. Richie didn’t think he’d ever wanted to suck a dick more than he did right now.

“Can I?” Richie said.

“Don’t you dare stop.” Eddie whispered.

Richie pushed the fabric of Eddie’s boxers down. Before he could second-guess himself, he took Eddie in his hand. Eddie was long, circumcised, and silky hot under his touch. He slid his dry hand up slowly, his eyes on Eddie’s. He watched as Eddie took a shaky breath, but he didn’t look away. 

Richie closed his lips around the tip of Eddie’s cock, sucking lightly. Eddie’s head thunked back against the refrigerator again. He’d wind up with a bruise at this rate. Richie bobbed his head, taking Eddie deeper, breathing through his nose as Eddie filled his mouth, and overwhelmed his senses.

“Can I touch you?” Eddie said.

Richie nodded minutely, and Eddie’s hands landed on his head, aimlessly petting his hair. Richie sucked, hard, until Eddie was bumping at the back of his throat. It was messy, sloppy and glorious, like all the best blow jobs. 

Richie looked up, but Eddie wasn’t looking down anymore. His eyes were screwed shut, and his face looked like he was straining to hold himself back. Richie slid his mouth up and down Eddie’s cock, alternating between hard and soft pressure, using his tongue, with one hand on the base and the other anchored on Eddie’s hip. Richie watched the changes on Eddie’s face and felt Eddie’s hands on him. He found a rhythm that seemed to have the desired effect. Eddie’s fingers gripped his hair, hard enough to make Richie’s eyes water, and he thrust his hips forward, and Richie felt the salty tang of semen spill over his tongue, as Eddie’s cock twitched through his orgasm.

A warning would have been nice, Richie thought, as he pulled back, noticing that Eddie’s orgasm had been entirely silent, which wasn’t something he’d experienced. For all his faults, Richie was a considerate lover, and was used to hearing the encouragement of his partners. Eddie’s eyes were still closed, and his face was flushed red. He looked overwhelmed, slightly shocked. His cock was softening, and looked a little forlorn, hanging outside his boxers. Eddie took his hands out of Richie’s hair, and tucked himself back into his pants, still not looking at him.

When Eddie didn’t speak, or reach for Richie, or give any indication that he wanted to reciprocate, Richie put some space between them. His brain started running at a hundred miles an hour, wondering if he’d made a terrible mistake. Eddie had asked for it, hadn’t he? He’d dared Richie to kiss him and had asked Richie not to stop. 

Richie put more space between them, his erection fading away. He could not, would not, give the impression that he was pressurising Eddie, in any way. 

“Why do I suddenly feel like I’ve taken advantage of you?” Richie said, quietly. 

Eddie blinked his eyes open, and looked down at Richie. The blush was fading from his cheeks, leaving a grey pallor, and his eyes were wide, shocked. “Richie, I’m sorry.... I shouldn’t have let it go this far.” He said. “It’s my fault. I should go...” He zipped up his trousers and stalked off, slamming his bedroom door, leaving Richie on his knees in the kitchen, wondering what the hell he’d done wrong.

He pulled himself to his feet. He wasn’t in his twenties any more, and his knees hurt from kneeling on the hardwood flooring. 

So, Richie thought, as he opened a beer from the fridge and drank it in three long gulps, washing the taste of Eddie away. One of two things had just happened: either Eddie wasn’t as straight as Richie had always believed; or he thought any mouth was good enough to stick his dick into. 

Either way, Eddie clearly regretted it as soon as the orgasm faded. And, now Richie did, too. 

Richie had a long history of ill-advised sexual liaisons. Many one-night stands, dozens of short term relationships; some that were fuelled by drink or drugs, others by the hyper sexuality that sometimes overcame him, when he was ill. He’d never felt so diminished by sex before.

He drank another beer, and another, continuing until the pain was blunted. Shrug it off, he told himself. It wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to him.

The next morning, Eddie tried to talk to him. Richie deflected with a joke, at Eddie’s expense and was rewarded with a “fuck you” and an eye roll.

Things were tense between them for a few days. Richie kept an artificial distance from him, but was, at all times, fully aware of Eddie’s proximity; in the kitchen as Richie reached for the coffee while Eddie was transferring a pan to the sink, or in court every day, sitting close enough to touch. 

He took care to avoid casual touches, or the careless affection, he’d previously shown him. Instead, Richie persisted with his strategy of throwing humour at Eddie every time he tried to move the conversation back to that night. Richie didn’t want to hear Eddie’s excuses. That would hurt worse than the feeling that he’d been used.


	5. Insufficient Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie makes some bad choices, while his mood spirals downward.

As the trial continued, Richie started to decline. When he snapped at Mike for suggesting they go out to eat, and started needing seven alarms to get himself out of bed each day, he had enough insight to recognise that he was teetering on the brink of a depression. He tried to keep it hidden from Eddie and Mike, but Steve could see straight through him. So he took steps to keep Steve at arms length, suggesting that he should go back to LA.

“I’m not going back to LA.” Steve said. “No matter what you think, my interests are best served if I keep your sweet ass out of jail.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Steve.” Richie said. “My interests will be served if you go back to LA and try to salvage what you can of my career.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here.” Steve said, sitting directly in front of Richie. “I can see the signs.”

“I’m fine.” Richie said, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. Steve’s face became unfocussed. Richie found that he liked it that way. He lit a cigarette.

“I don’t think you are.” Steve said, leaning forward into Richie’s personal space, and resting his hands on Richie’s knees. “I also want to keep you out of the psych ward, Richie.”

Richie blinked, trying to hold back tears. Another sign that he wasn’t doing well. He didn’t usually allow himself to be overcome. Right now, everything felt too close to the surface. He tried to deflect. “I’m good Steve.” He said. “I’m stressed because of the trial. It’ll pass.”

“I want you to see your doctor.” Steve said. “I’m going to make an appointment for you.”

“Fine.” Richie said. There was no point arguing with Steve. “But there’s nothing wrong with me.”

***

Richie was prescribed some more medication. He knew from experience that it could take several weeks to kick in. He spent a lot of time in his room, avoiding people, even though he knew he should be reaching out, asking for support. In his mind, he felt his depression would only drag everybody down with him, and he didn’t want to subject them to his moods.

So he avoided everyone.

The case was dragging on. Eddie was slowly going through his witness list, with lots of interruptions for legal arguments and disputes. The prosecutor was an absolute nightmare. Richie was starting to think that even the judge was sick of hearing from him, and he spent more time out of his chair, lodging objections, than Eddie, who was supposed to be putting forward his case. 

Then there were endless discussions with Eddie about whether he should take the stand. Eddie thought he should. Richie disagreed. 

“I don’t see how my testimony is going to help.” Richie told Eddie as they waited in the hallway during another recess. “You know what I’m like. I can’t control my mouth. It just runs itself. I’ll wind up insulting the judge or the jury or both.”

“The jury needs to hear from you.” Eddie said, perhaps for the hundredth time. “They need to understand your state of mind when you picked up the axe.”

Steve chipped in, folding himself into a low plastic chair, and passing coffee to Eddie and Richie. “We can work through it.” He said to Richie. “Prepare it like a script. It’ll be like a performance.”

“I don’t normally have to perform against a hostile interrogator.” Richie said. “If I take the stand, the prosecution will have a free run at me.” He turned to look Eddie in the eyes. “You know there’s things I can’t talk about, Eds.”

Eddie nodded, sipping his coffee. Steve rolled his eyes. “Are you guys ever going to tell me what happened?”

“No.” Richie said. Eddie kept quiet.

“I’m pretty sure that what I’m imagining is worse than what probably happened.” Steve muttered. “And if I’m thinking that the reason you’re lying is because you have something horrible to hide, the jury will be, too.”

“It is what it is.” Richie said. 

“I can’t deal with you when you’re like this.” Steve said, getting up and walking away.

Steve could, and had, dealt with Richie when he was far worse. His comment still stung. “I wish I could tell him.” He said quietly to Eddie. 

“I thought you wanted to stay out of the psych ward.” Eddie said. And that stung, too. Richie took a deep, shaky, breath and blinked behind his glasses. That was harsh. He hated having his mental health used against him. And Eddie knew that what they’d seen and done in Derry was real. It had nothing to do with how sane Richie was. 

Eddie looked at him, frowning. “You’re upset.” He said. 

Richie looked away and avoided eye contact. “Ignore me.” He said. “It’s just the stress getting to me.”

Eddie didn’t look convinced, but let it drop. “We need to head back in.” He said, tossing his coffee cup into the trash.

***

A few days later, Richie found Eddie and Steve with their heads together at the end of the day, over coffee in the Starbucks opposite the court house. When he pulled up a chair at their table, their conversation stopped abruptly.

“I guess this sudden silence means you were talking about me?” Richie said. 

“We’re worried about you.” Eddie said. 

“I’m on trial for murder.” Richie said. “My career’s in a garbage can, and I’m stuck in fucking Derry. There’s plenty to worry about.” 

Steve and Eddie shared a look that seemed to convey a mutual I-told-you-so. 

“Rich.” Steve said, looking to Eddie for support (and when did Steve and Eddie become the kind of friends who could team up, communicate without speaking and stage an intervention?). “I think your mood is getting mixed.”

“Oh fuck off, Steve.” Richie said, loud enough that a young woman sitting nearby with a small child in a stroller tutted in his direction. 

“Listen to him.” Eddie said, catching Richie’s hand in his, an unexpected gesture to get Richie’s attention, which took Richie by surprise. “I know I haven’t seen....” He broke off, and tried a different tack. “You’re anxious, that’s understandable, and you’re also depressed - don’t argue with me Richie, I have eyes - and you’re irritable.”

Richie couldn’t deal with this shit from both of them. He stood up abruptly, knocking his chair into the table behind him, and earning a ‘watch it’ from the guy sitting there. He stalked out of the coffee shop, into the drizzle of the of the fall afternoon.

He got in his car, not caring that he was the carpool driver today, and drove back to the apartment. In LA, when he was feeling down and angry, he would self-medicate. He didn’t even know where to find the local drug dealers, which just about summed up his fucking life right now. 

He rattled around the apartment for a couple of hours. Eddie and Steve were like the fucking mood police. Always watching, monitoring, keeping tabs on him. He knew they had good intentions, but it was exhausting, living under the microscope of the trial and feeling like he couldn’t breathe without someone taking note and chalking it up to some big problem. 

His anger evaporated, slowly draining away, but he was still on edge. He poured a large glass of Eddie’s Pinot Noir, and sat on the sofa, trying to find his centre.

Three glasses in, and Steve and Eddie were still not home. He imagined them sitting in Starbucks still, probably pissed at him for taking off with the car and leaving them without a ride, and talking about him, what a problem he was, and how they were going to fix him. Probably with pharmaceuticals and therapy.

He needed to get out of this apartment.

***

By 10pm, Richie was skirting on the edge of fucked up drunk. 

The Falcon was loud, crowded and surprisingly tame, given its reputation. Richie had heard plenty of rumours about the Falcon when he was growing up; salacious, outrageous rumours for the most part, but he’d never crossed the threshold before. He’d imagined that the bar would be thronged with guys in various states of undress, flowing in and out of the back room sex dungeon, and giving blowjobs on the dance floor. 

Instead, he found a conservative-looking crowd, dancing to music that might have been cool ten years ago. In other words, a typically small town conservative, very Derry experience. 

Richie leaned back with his elbows on the bar slightly unsteady on his feet, looking out across the dance floor, watching the swaying mass of bodies move to the beat of some club classic, and feeling like an outsider. 

A good looking guy in his early forties finished buying his drink, and leaned back against the bar, mirroring Richie’s posture. “It looks exhausting.” He said.

“What does?” Richie said. 

“The dancing.” The guy said. “Don’t get me wrong, fifteen years ago I would have been out there, dancing with the best of them. Now, though,” He paused, taking a drink, and locked eyes with Richie. “Now, I just prop up the bar.”

Richie downed his drink, and in a rush of drunken bravado, said “Nope. That’s not good enough. We might be slightly older than some of the patrons in this esteemed establishment, but we’re still young. Let’s dance.” He pushed himself off the bar, and swayed a bit with the forward momentum. The English butler voice took over, as he said “We’ll show these young folk a thing or two.” 

He put his hand out and the guy shrugged as if to say ‘sure’, shook Richie’s hand, and introduced himself. Richie’s drunken brain skimmed over the name, forgetting it as soon as his mind moved onto the next thing, specifically, staying upright enough to make it to the dance floor.

The dance floor was crowded, and Richie was disinhibited enough to plaster himself against the guy’s front in a clumsy embrace and start swaying, somewhat in time with the beat of the music. It wasn’t clear which one of them was holding the other up, and Richie found that he didn’t care. It felt good to be close to someone. It felt good to be anonymous, just a guy in a bar.

Richie’s hands gravitated to the small of the guy’s back, gripping his shirt, as the guy’s hands grabbed his ass, pulling him closer, Richie stumbled a little but managed to stay upright. He could smell the guy’s cologne, feel the scrape of his stubble against his cheek. It had been months since he’d been pressed up against a willing stranger. 

A faster song came on, but the guy didn’t pull away, so Richie clung on, pressing his face into the guy’s neck. Maybe he’d be getting lucky tonight.

“For fuck’s sake, Richie.” Eddie said, from close behind him. 

Richie straightened up, releasing his grip on the guy, and spun round. “What are you doing here?” He said.

“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.” The guy said, stepping a few feet clear of Richie, holding up his hands in a ‘back-off’ gesture to both Richie and Eddie. When Richie saw the furious look on Eddie’s face, he understood why the guy was acting cautious. Richie had never seen Eddie look so angry. His face was dark with rage, his lips were pressed together in a thin line and, yes, his fists were clenched. 

Richie took a step back, accidentally bumping into the nameless guy (was it Paul? Peter? Patrick?). “He’s not my boyfriend.” Richie said, at the same time that Eddie said “What the actual fuck Richie?” Through gritted teeth, as he grabbed his arm, and pulled him off the dance floor. Even though Richie had several inches of extra height (and some pounds of extra weight, no doubt), Eddie was strong enough to drag Richie away, and to keep him upright as he staggered. 

He manoeuvred Richie out of the loud bar, into the corridor leading to the men’s room, where the music was quietened to the dull throb of the bass that seemed to pulse through the floor. Eddie pushed him, hard, up against the wall. Richie knocked his head on the drywall, his ears were ringing, unaccustomed to the sudden relative quiet.

“You.” Eddie said, poking Richie in the chest to punctuate each word. “Are due in court tomorrow morning.” He stepped back, leaving Richie leaning up against the wall, and ran his hands through his hair. “Look at the state you’re in.”

Part of Richie, probably the sane, sensible part of him wanted to agree with Eddie. He was an idiot to be this drunk, trying to hook up with a guy in the only gay bar in town, the night before he was due in court. Unfortunately, the drunk, unstable, Richie was behind the wheel right now, so he said, slurring his words only slightly. “Eddie, sweetheart, you must be confused.”

“What?” Eddie said, getting that intensely furious look back on his face.

“You must be confused.” Richie said, slowly, like it was Eddie who was inebriated and slow to catch on. “Because you’re acting like I should give a fuck about what you think.”

If Eddie’s face had degrees of fury, Richie thought he’d probably pushed him to DEFCON 1. “Excuse me?” He said.

“You heard.” Richie said, pushing himself away from the wall, and standing tall, making the most of his height advantage. “What makes you think you can barge in here and drag me out like an angry father?” Richie said. “You don’t own me. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Jesus Christ.” Eddie said, walking a few steps away, turning back and then walking away again. Richie got the impression that Eddie was struggling to find the words to express his rage. He took a deep breath, but Richie could see his fists were clenched again. “I’m not getting into this with you when you’re like this.” He said eventually. 

“Maybe I don’t want to be rescued.” Richie said. “Maybe I want to...”

“I’m going to give you a choice.” The door opened onto the bar, and Eddie paused as some guy brushed past them on the way to the bathroom. “I want you leave with me right now, I’ll buy you a strong coffee and get some Tylenol and water in you, and we might be able to salvage court tomorrow. But, you’re right, it’s your choice. If you want to stay, then stay. But I don’t know if I can stick around - as your friend, and as your lawyer - if you think that it’s OK to put your whole future on the line for a few drinks and a quick fuck.”

“I’m not looking for a ‘quick fuck’.” Richie said, sullenly. “Maybe I’m looking for a real connection.”

“In here?” Eddie said, gesturing to the flaky paint and stained, sticky carpet.

“Derry isn’t exactly full of other venues.” Richie said. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I imagine this is your first time in a gay bar, isn’t Eds?”

“Oh fuck you, Richie.” Eddie said, looking one thousand per cent done with Richie and his bullshit. “Are you coming with me, or not?”

Now Richie was drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. He might be willing to run himself over the edge of a cliff and to hell with the consequences, but he really didn’t want to lose Eddie in the process, even if he thought Eddie would be better off without him. He was selfish like that. He pushed himself off the wall, and gestured to Eddie. “Lead the way.” He said. “God forbid I might actually have a bit of fun in this godforsaken town.” The drama of his gesture was undercut by the sway in his step and the slur in his speech. Eddie, for his part, stalked off, trusting that Richie would follow him.

The car ride was silent. Richie opened his mouth several times, but snapped it shut when he looked at Eddie’s furious face. When they got back to the apartment, Eddie went straight to the kitchen and came out a few minutes later with a pot of coffee and a packet of pills.

“Drink the coffee, take the pills and go to bed.” He said, putting the pot and mug down and tossing the packet into Richie’s lap. He started to walk away.

“Eddie, wait.” Richie said, and Eddie paused, with his back to him. “Why are you sticking around to help me?’ He poured a large coffee, and popped two Tylenol out of the pack. “I know there’s someone waiting for you back in New York.”

Eddie turned. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard you talking on the phone to Myra.” Richie said. “I heard you say there was someone else.” He took the pills, washed down with hot coffee that burned the roof of his mouth. “And I don’t understand why you’re still in Derry, if there’s someone waiting for you.”

“What?” Eddie said, and Richie, still drunk, could not decipher the expression on his face. Eddie stared at him for a few intense moments. “You’re an idiot, Richie.” He said, eventually, walking away, leaving Richie on the sofa with his too-hot coffee, wondering what was stupid about what he’d said.

Richie was lounging on the sofa, flicking through his phone and slowing sobering up, when Eddie came out of his room, wearing boxers and a white t-shirt, and threw himself down next to Richie. Richie started to swing his legs over the side of the sofa to make room, but Eddie just moved closer, until they were sitting pressed up against each other. Richie kept still, to avoid unnecessary contact. The lights were on in the kitchen, throwing a muted glow across the living room. The sofa was in shadow.

“You’re an idiot, you know.” Eddie said again, this time more kindly.

“I know.” Richie said. “A drunken fumble in the town’s only gay bar won’t look good in the gossip pages.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Eddie said. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop. It’s easy to get the wrong idea, when you only overhear part of a conversation.”

“I’m sorry.” Richie said. “I should respect your privacy.”

Eddie huffed and rolled his eyes. “Thanks, but that’s not what I meant either.” Eddie turned so he was facing the side of Richie’s head. Richie turned to look him in the eye, twisting uncomfortably in the seat, and pulling one leg under him. Eddie looked softer, in the dim light. “You deserve better than a hook up in the men’s room.”

Richie’s mind flicked back to his mouth around Eddie’s cock, the taste of Eddie’s semen. He shut that down quickly. He’d moved on from that. It was a little hypocritical of Eddie to shame him about a hook up that never happened, when Eddie was the only person he’d recently hooked up with. 

As if he’d picked the thoughts out of Richie’s head, Eddie said, “I know how that sounds, after what happened.”

Although he’d sobered up considerably, Richie was still mildly intoxicated, and didn’t have the brainpower to make a witty comeback, which had been his only coping strategy thus far. “I’m still not entirely sure what happened, Eds.” Richie said. “Sometimes I think I crossed a line, and other times, I’m pretty sure it was you crossing it.”

“You didn’t cross any lines, Richie.” Eddie said, moving so that their knees were touching. “I’ve been thinking about that night constantly.”

“Was it that good?” Richie said, and Eddie nudged him, with a wry smile.

“I don’t have anything to compare it to.” Eddie said. 

Richie’s brain shrieked to a halt. “You’ve never had a blow job before? Holy shit, Eddie. Wow.”

“I didn’t know whether to tell you.” Eddie said. “At the time, I mean.”

Richie tried to sort through his memories of that night, so see if this new information gave a different context. He tried to put himself in Eddie’s position. He remembered his first blow job, and he’d been an eighteen year old freshman who couldn’t believe his luck; he could see why Eddie might have been overwhelmed enough to run.

“You should have told me.” Richie said. “I think I might have misinterpreted what happened.”

“I tried to talk to you.” Eddie said. “But you kept deflecting, and I thought you regretted it.”

“Well, you are still married.” Richie said. 

Eddie flinched and pulled back slightly. “I am.” He said. 

“To a woman.” Richie said, with a smirk.

“I feel like I should say ‘fuck you’.” Eddie said, smiling. 

“Go ahead.” Richie said. “I definitely deserve it.”

“Fuck you, Richie Tozier.” Eddie said, grinning.

Richie grinned back at him. “I don’t want to make things weird.” He said. Whatever intimacy there had been between them, sitting close together and talking in the shadows, evaporated. Richie swung his legs round to the floor and picked up his cold coffee. Eddie scooted back, creating space on the sofa.

“You are weird.” Eddie said. 

“That’s right.” Richie said. “I am.”

***  
Richie was hungover and full of regret.

He thought Eddie was taking a sadistic kind of pleasure in banging around in the kitchen at 6am, and turning up the radio. He thought Eddie was enjoying Richie’s pale complexion and the dark circles under his eyes. There was an undercurrent of ‘I-told-you-so’ in Eddie’s body language.

They travelled together to court. 

Richie knew that the headache and lethargy would be with him all day. He was long past the age when a drunken night could be shaken off by lunchtime. Since he’d turned thirty, his hangovers were brutal and legendary.

Then there was the added crap show that was his current mood. Whenever he self medicated during a depression, he could stave off the low mood for a couple of hours while the drinks were flowing, maybe feel normal for a night, but the next day - and for days after - he’d sink lower. Today was no exception. He could barely bring himself to speak.

Eddie pulled into the drive through, and ordered a triple espresso. He handed it to Richie silently. Richie couldn’t tell if he was being supported, or being judged. 

The day passed in pain and boredom, as more legal arguments were put to the judge and the case edged closer to its conclusion.

***  
Eddie went out that evening, leaving Richie on his own, tired and still feeling the throb of the headache that was impervious to any of the painkillers he’d taken. He didn’t tell Richie where he was going, and since Richie wasn’t Eddie’s keeper, Richie didn’t ask. 

***  
The case dragged on.

Richie sank lower and lower, withdrawing, but not so far that he stopped noticing the sudden silences and worried glances Mike, Steve and Eddie shared whenever he was in the room.

His depression was sucking the colours out of his life, leaving everything monochrome. It went beyond sadness, his emotions were blunted, leaving him feeling an empty nothingness. 

He kept taking his medication.

And wasn’t that the textbook definition of madness? To keep doing the same thing repeatedly, and hoping each time for a different result?

***  
Eddie clattered into the apartment, throwing his briefcase on the sofa and heading straight to his room. Richie was chopping vegetables - he’d learned a lot about cooking from Eddie these past weeks - and paused, tracking Eddie’s progress through the apartment, watching as he slammed the door. It had taken a lot of Richie’s limited energy to get off the sofa and into the kitchen.

Eddie emerged fifteen minutes later with wet hair, and wearing sweatpants and his ratty t-shirt.

“That fucking prosecutor is going to be the death of me.” Eddie said, sitting at the counter, watching Richie chopping. “I just spent the last three hours with him in chambers, going over the same shit we’ve already put to bed.” Richie took a bottle of red off the shelf and passed it to him with a glass. Eddie took it wordlessly, and poured a generous measure. “I am so sick of him tying the case in knots. We should have been done weeks ago.” He took a sip of the wine. “This is good, Rich. What is it?”

Richie showed Eddie the bottle. “Looks like you need to unwind a bit.” He said, turning back to his stir fry. “The guy’s an ass.”

Eddie huffed in agreement, and drank his wine. Richie threw the ingredients into a hot wok along with some egg noodles, and kept them moving around the pan. Cooking was actually easy. How had he lived for forty years without learning to cook? 

He put a plate in front of Eddie, and sat opposite him.

“This is very domestic.” Richie said, twirling noodles onto his fork.

Eddie raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. He was eating, which Richie considered a win. And he wasn’t complaining about the food, another win.

After dinner, Richie was loading the dishwasher, when Eddie suddenly appeared behind him, up close. Richie turned, and Eddie was just there, looking at him with an intense, unreadable expression. He reached up, and hauled Richie down into a kiss.

It took a few seconds for Richie’s brain to get with the programme. Then, against his better judgement, he was kissing Eddie back, gripping his biceps, while Eddie’s hands pulled at his hips until they were pressed flush against each other. Eddie manhandled them into the living room, and pushed Richie onto the sofa, still kissing him. Eddie climbed onto Richie’s lap.

Richie broke away. “What are we doing?” He said.

“Don’t over think it.” Eddie said, trailing kisses down Richie’s neck.

“But...”

“Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” Eddie said.

Richie thought this was a mistake. Another mistake to add to the many he’d already made with Eddie. He and Eddie seemed to be locked into a push and pull. Richie was as guilty as Eddie; he wasn’t judging him. Richie understood that Eddie might be confused, or grieving the end of his marriage or just horny because there was no-one else around. But Richie was fragile right now, and he was sure Eddie would know it. He wasn’t in the right place to take risks, to gamble on a positive outcome.

He’d done this before. He’d sought out physical comfort, or accepted advances against his better judgement, to try to light a spark in him. His depression was an absence of emotion, and he was occasionally driven to extreme ends to try to feel something, anything. The alternative was to sink into the unfeeling emptiness. A place where nothing was worthwhile, where everything’s difficulty level was multiplied exponentially. It usually led him to unsatisfying one-night-stands and a worsening sense of disconnection.

Eddie deserved better.

But he was weak, in need of comfort - even if it was false comfort - and he couldn’t bring himself to tell Eddie to stop. He gripped Eddie’s shoulders, and kissed him deeply, sliding his tongue behind Eddie’s teeth. Eddie’s sweatpants did nothing to obscure his mounting excitement. 

Richie didn’t know what Eddie was doing. Well, he knew what he was doing physically. Richie could feel Eddie’s erection pressing against his thigh, he could feel Eddie’s hand in his hair, and the other gripping his bicep. He could taste the hint of teriyaki sauce from the stir fry on Eddie’s lips, and the berry tang of the wine. He didn’t know what had motivated Eddie to start this thing between them again, after the awkwardness after the last time.

Did Eddie know that he was playing with fire? 

Richie wanted to feel alive. He wanted to feel desirable. He wanted to feel pleasure. So he didn’t waste too much time thinking about Eddie’s motivations. He kissed him back, hard, and let himself be manhandled. It was hot.

He had one hand on Eddie’s hip, gripping him tightly and trying to keep him steady on his lap, while his hips were twitching in abortive little thrusts. The sweatpants should be compulsory attire. They left nothing to the imagination.

Richie slid his hands down the back of Eddie’s sweatpants and gripped his ass, as Eddie pushed his shirt to one side, exposing his shoulder and collar bones, and kissed a trail down Richie’s neck.

Eddie ground his ass into Richie’s lap. 

Richie could see the moment that Eddie pulled back, stuttering to a stop. His face screwed up into a frown, as he scooted back onto Richie’s knees.

“You’re not into this.” Eddie said, his eyes flicking to Richie’s crotch.

“I am.” Richie said, trailing his fingers down Eddie’s arm. Eddie watched the movement, until Richie pulled his hand back, placing it awkwardly on the arm of the sofa. “It can take a while... you know...”. He gestured to his lap, but he couldn’t look Eddie in the eye. 

God, this was utterly humiliating.

Eddie swivelled off Richie’s lap, so Richie could only see the side of his head. “You should have stopped me.” Eddie said. “You should have stopped me, Richie. God. I thought you were into it.”

“I am into it.” Richie said, and he so wanted to reach out to Eddie, to kiss him again, to feel him overwhelmed and sweaty on his lap. By now Eddie thought Richie had rejected him, and Richie didn’t have the nerve to lift his hand and touch. “It’s the medication. It has side effects.” 

Eddie turned to look at Richie directly. “Oh.” He said quietly. 

Richie could see the moment when the shutters came down on Eddie’s expression. 

He drew back. “I changed my dose recently.” Richie said, feeling broken.

“Oh.” Eddie nodded, like he understood. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Richie’s humiliation transformed into irritation. A self-defence mechanism, probably. But being aware of why he was feeling something, didn’t actually stop the swell of emotion. Even when he was depressed, Richie could feel anger. It was the only emotion he could reliably and easily process. 

Richie now had a choice. He was angry, but he wanted to tell Eddie how he felt; humiliated, embarrassed, diminished and, once again, defined entirely by his diagnosis. He wanted to explain that the price of stability was weight gain and sexual dysfunction, and it was a price he’d refused to pay at various times in his life. Unmedicated, Richie’s life was chaos and suffering. The price was worth paying.

He didn’t have the energy to find the right words and was scared that the anger would spill out, so he stood up, straightened his dishevelled clothes and walked away, leaving Eddie on the sofa.


	6. Under Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Steve stage two interventions. Richie takes the stand. And for a man who makes a living with his mouth, Richie has a really hard time communicating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for suicidal thoughts - please take care when reading this.

Richie tossed and turned for hours that night, wishing that his fucking dick hadn’t let him down, and worrying about what Eddie had really wanted from him. There was a vast difference between a fuck-buddy scenario and anything approaching real feelings. Was Eddie experimenting with him? Indulging his curiosity? Richie didn’t know. What did Richie want out of this? He didn’t know that either. He realised he was assuming that there was something happening between them, assuming that Eddie didn’t think Richie was broken, and therefore not worth it. 

He finally fell into a light, dreamless sleep.

Eddie woke him up banging around in the kitchen the next morning. Richie fumbled his glasses onto his face, and hauled his ass out of bed. His phone said it was 6am. He really didn’t have the energy to face this right now.

Nevertheless, he needed to rip off the band-aid. 

He shuffled into the kitchen, pulling on a sweater because late fall in Maine was an entirely different beast to fall in LA. He missed the blue skies and temperatures that didn’t fall below seventy degrees, briefly, as he poured a cup of coffee in the chilly apartment, and sat opposite Eddie.

“We should talk about it.” Richie said.

Eddie peered at him over the top of his own coffee cup. “I was going to go for a run.” He said. 

“Please Eddie.” Richie said. “I don’t want you to feel like you were pressuring me.” Richie recalled how he’d felt after the last, glorious, disastrous, hook up with Eddie. It wasn’t a pleasant state of mind, to think that you’d accidentally pressurised someone into a sexual encounter. “I wanted it.”

Eddie put down his cup, and put his head in his hands. 

“Look, Eddie. I don’t know what’s happening here.” Richie said, staring at the top of Eddie’s head, and wishing that Eddie would look at him. It would be easier for Richie to read him, if he could see his face. “I don’t know if I’m convenient, or if you need to shake off your marriage by sleeping with someone else, or if you’re attracted to guys.”

“Richie, stop, please.” Eddie said. “I can’t do this right now.” He looked Richie in the eye, and Richie saw the same, pale, drawn face he’d seen as they descended into the sewers. 

He put his coffee cup into the sink, and went back to his room. He heard the door slam as Eddie went out for a run.

***  
Things reached a crescendo on a Saturday.

Bill flew in the night before, and Eddie and Mike had gone to pick him up from the airport. He arrived at the apartment early, and Eddie and Mike took themselves off somewhere, again, leaving Bill alone with Richie.

Richie dragged himself out of bed around lunchtime.

“Hey Richie.” Bill said from the sofa, putting his Kindle down.

“I didn’t think you’d make it back to Derry.” Richie said, as he poured them both a coffee, and sat opposite Bill.

“It took longer than I wanted.” Bill said. “You know what it’s like when a studio gets its claws into you. It’s been one, big, never ending re-write.”

Richie, who had done his share of writing - usually for TV - understood some of what Bill must have been going through.

“It’s really good of you to come back.” Richie said.

“I’ve been speaking to Eddie and Mike.” Bill said. “They’re worried about you.”

Richie sighed, but couldn’t muster the energy to even feign outrage. “I know.” 

“So I think I know what’s going on, Rich?” Bill said. “How can we help you?”

Now there was a radical thought for Richie in his current state of mind. That he might be worthy of accepting help. That he might be able to reach out to Bill and find a solution that could help.

“I don’t know how anyone can help.” Richie said. “It’s a chemical imbalance.”

Bill stood up. “We need to get out of this apartment.”

He ignored Richie’s protests, and an hour later they were walking through the farmers’ market in the next town over.

It was a crisp late fall day. The sky was blue, and the air was cold. Richie had an aversion to pumpkins, unsurprisingly, given his history with Halloween, and walked a step behind Bill, with his hood up and his hands in his pockets, lost inside his own head and barely paying attention to the vendors.

Bill was talking about his latest project, stopping every so often to sign an autograph or have his photo taken with a fan. Richie was invisible beside him. At another time, his ego might be bruised by his relative obscurity, but today he was grateful that he didn’t have to fake-smile for pictures or be witty on demand. 

“Are you going to take the stand?” Bill said, with his mouth full of cheese. “This is good. You should try some.”

Richie took a small piece of cheese. It tasted like sawdust to him. He put his hands back in his pockets. “Eddie wants me to.” He said, replying to Bill’s original question.

“Does that mean that you will?” Bill said. 

“I don’t know.” Richie said. “It feels like a huge risk.”

“Isn’t it also a risk if you don’t?” 

Richie shrugged. “Probably.”

Bill dropped the subject of Richie’s testimony. He paused at a stall selling baked goods, and took a brownie sample, and then bought half a dozen, adding them to the fabric bag he was carrying that was already full of produce. Richie thought Eddie would approve of this place and all the organic ingredients here.

They bought coffee and Bill led them to a wall on the market’s edge. He put down his bag of produce and hauled himself up to sit on the wall. Richie leaned next to him, facing forwards, looking out over the stalls. “This is probably spectacularly bad timing.” Bill said, eating a brownie out of the bag, and offering one to Richie, who shook his head. “I can see that you’re not in a good place right now.” He gestured to Richie standing with his hood pulled up, still covering half his face. “God, this is difficult when I can’t see you. Put the hood down, Richie, you look like an overgrown teenager.” Richie pushed it back, turned to give Bill his full attention, and gestured for him to continue. 

Bill took another bite of his brownie. “I need to talk to you about Eddie.” He said, looking at Richie carefully. Richie was irritated by the attention. He wasn’t a delicate, fragile man who needed careful handling.

“What about Eddie?” Richie said.

“When we drove out to the airport.” Bill said. “I told you to take care of him.”

Richie nodded, thinking that Bill was about to launch into a - probably well deserved - critique of the trouble Richie was causing all of them. He felt a momentary, visceral, regret that he’d agreed to let Eddie represent him. If not for him, Eddie would be back in New York, moving on with his life. Instead, he was stuck in the purgatory that was Derry, suffering because of Richie.

“I told him to take care of you, too, Rich.” Bill said. 

“OK.” Richie said.

“You need to take care of each other.” Bill said, holding eye contact. “Do you get what I’m saying?”

“I’ve been trying, Bill.” Richie said, thinking that Bill meant that Richie should be taking better care of Eddie. Frankly, Richie agreed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped him going back to New York. It was selfish of me.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Bill said, folding down the corners of the paper bag containing the brownies, and balancing it on the wall next to him. 

“You’re going to have to be more explicit.” Richie said. “My mind-reading abilities aren’t what they once were. It’s a side effect of the depression.”

Bill took a deep breath. “Fine.” He said, on a hard exhale. “You don’t have to be sarcastic, Richie. I’m trying to help here.” Richie still not understanding what Bill was trying to say. “Why do you think Eddie’s still in Derry?”

“He’s my lawyer.” Richie said.

“And?” 

“And he’s my friend.” Richie said. “What are you trying to say Bill? I’m getting lost in this conversation.”

“And would you also say that Mike and I are your friends, too?” Bill said. “And Ben and Bev?”

“Yes, of course. You’re all my friends.” Richie said. 

“Even though we all left you here?” Bill said. Richie started to say yes until Bill cut him off, saying, “We left you here, Richie. We all went back to our lives or on to new things. What does that tell you, Richie? What does it tell you that we all left you here in Derry?”

“It tells me that you’ve all got good judgement.” Richie said. “I wouldn’t spend another day in Derry if I had a choice. I’d leave now and never come back. You all did the right thing by leaving.”

“Right.” Bill said, pushing himself off the wall to stand in front of Richie. “I’m going to ask you again. Why do you think Eddie is still in Derry?” 

“What are you getting at?” Richie’s temper was starting to fray. “He’s here because he’s my lawyer.”

Bill sighed theatrically. “Did he have to offer to be your lawyer? You couldn’t afford to find one yourself? It had to be Eddie?”

“I feel shitty enough about keeping him here, Bill.” Richie tossed his empty coffee cup towards a nearby trash can and missed by a wide margin. He trudged over to pick it up. Bill followed him. “You don’t need to keep reminding me that I’m responsible for Eddie putting his whole life on hold. Can we go back to the car?” Richie said. “I’m cold.”

It was a ten minute, silent walk back through the market to get to the car. Bill kept looking over at Richie, as he politely brushed off a couple of fans who tried to get an autograph. Richie could see that Bill wasn’t happy.

Bill slammed the passenger side door with a little too much force.

“I don’t know if you’re being deliberately obtuse, or if this is some kind of...”. He trailed off.

“Some kind of what?” Richie said, although right now he had a good idea of the direction Bill was heading.

“Some kind of side-effect.” Bill said, quietly. 

“That’s fucking unfair, Bill.” Richie said, starting the engine. “Why don’t you just say what you need to say? Stop with the guessing games.” He threw the car into reverse and spun out of his parking space. “And don’t be an asshole. This has nothing to do with my mental state, or my medication, or whatever you’re implying, and everything to do with the fact that you’re clearly tiptoeing around something. Just fucking say what you’ve got to say.”

“Eddie’s in love with you, you idiot.”

Richie slammed on the brakes, taking a sick satisfaction in the way Bill bounced off the dashboard. “What?”

“Are you crazy?” Bill said, pulling his seatbelt on, in case Richie pulled the same stunt a second time.

Richie looked at Bill, unimpressed. “What did you say?”

“I said Eddie’s in love with you.” Bill said. “I can’t believe you haven’t put the pieces together yourself.”

“What pieces?” 

“Eddie had a life-threatening injury.” Bill said. “And the first thing he does - even before he leaves the hospital - is throw a grenade at his whole life. Quits his job. Asks his wife for a divorce. Stays behind in Derry when the rest of us could hardly wait to get out of town. Why do you think he did that? Why do you think he’s so desperate to keep you out of jail?”

Richie turned the engine back on and started driving. He couldn’t look at Bill, it was literally painful to see him right now. Bill was spouting pure bullshit. “You don’t know anything, Bill.” He said. “Eddie’s not even gay.” 

“Just shut up and listen to me.” Bill said. “Eddie is bisexual. Just like you. Eddie stayed in Derry. For you.”

“He’s not in love with me.” Richie said. “There’s someone else in New York. I heard him telling Myra on the phone.”

“You are the someone else.” Bill said. “It’s you. It’s been you since he set eyes on you at Jade of the Orient.” Bill paused. “It’s been you for over twenty five years. He told me, Richie. I’m not pulling this out of my ass. He told me.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Richie said, making a rash overtaking manoeuvre on a curve in the road, before swerving back into his lane. 

“Because he can’t.” Bill said. “I can’t watch you both orbiting each other, oblivious and wasting time. If I’ve learned one thing this year, it’s that we can’t put things off. I keep thinking of Stan. I picture him - I don’t know - birdwatching and I wonder if he put off tracking down some birds, thinking that he’d do it next month, or next year. But Stan won’t ever be able to finish all the things he put off.”

Richie thought invoking the memory of Stan was a low blow. 

“I’ve been watching Eddie. I’ve been talking to him.” Bill said. “He’s waiting for you to find the clues he’s been putting out there, thinking that you’re subtly rejecting him, when in reality you’re just oblivious. I can’t sit back and watch you waste time, and it breaks my heart to look at Eddie when he’s looking at you.”

Richie drove in silence for a few miles, approaching the Derry town limits and checking his speed. Eddie had clearly not told Bill all the details of their relationship, because if he had, Bill would know how confused and upset Richie had been by Eddie’s rejection.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” Bill asked.

In another moment, in another person, the revelation that Eddie loved him might have lifted him up, given him something to look forward to, brought some joy and colour back into his life. Unfortunately, Richie’s depression, that grey filter, was unrelenting. Richie could only think about how bad he’d be for Eddie, or for anyone, and how he didn’t deserve anyone’s love or affection.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” Richie said, struggling to find the right words to express how this revelation could not have come at a worse time. If he wasn’t such a disaster, if his life hadn’t been upended by everything that had happened in Derry since he came here, chasing memories that had broken open when he heard Mike’s voice. If he wasn’t facing the crushing possibility of a long prison sentence. If he was in a better place, mentally. Maybe then, he’d be able to hear what Bill was saying, without feeling a cold dread. 

Eddie deserved better. That was the truth. He deserved someone who would lift him up, not someone like Richie who could only ever drag people down.

He couldn’t find the words, so he didn’t say anything. He parked the car outside his horrible rented apartment, and sat in the driver’s seat.

“Just let him down gently.” Bill said. He got out the car and slammed the door behind him, leaving Richie alone.

***  
Richie, in the grand tradition of men who struggle to express their emotions, pretended that the conversation with Bill never happened. When they were alone, he could sometimes see Bill working himself up to re-opening the conversation, and Richie quickly - and effortlessly - deflected. He could sense Bill’s frustration building.

Richie also withdrew from Eddie. Or maybe it was Eddie withdrawing from him. It was hard to tell. He could see Eddie throwing confused and contemplative looks in his direction, and feel the distance growing between them. He knew this wasn’t fair. Richie saw this as doing Eddie a favour in the long run. It would never work between them. 

***  
Richie didn’t have the strength to stand up to Eddie when the topic of him taking the stand came up again. When Steve and Bill and Mike all came down on Eddie’s side, it became inevitable. Richie was going to testify.

He had a different perspective of the courtroom from the witness stand. He could see the prosecuting attorney and the team from the DA’s office. He could see Eddie, with his head down, writing notes, and the vacant seat he’d usually be occupying. He could see the members of the jury who had previously been obscured from his view. The judge seemed to loom above him.

He took his oath, swearing on the Bible, even though he wasn’t entirely sure he had any faith left in him. The book itself felt rough under his hand.

Eddie stood up, straightening his cuffs, and walked around the desk to stand halfway between Richie and the jury.

“Mr Tozier.” Eddie said. “You live in LA. Why were you and your friends in Derry on the night of May eighth?”

“Mike Hanlon invited us all back for a reunion.” Richie said, closing his mind to the memory of the call, and its immediate, confusing, horrific, aftermath. “We attended Derry Elementary together. I think Mr Hanlon wanted to bring us all together for one last time before he left town.”

“Mr Bowers also attended Derry Elementary with you, didn’t he?” Richie nodded, and Eddie continued. “Do you know if Mr Hanlon also invited Mr Bowers to the reunion.”

“I can’t speak for Mike - Mr Hanlon - but I don’t believe he did. I don’t think any of us knew Henry Bowers was in town.”

“Could you describe the scene you found when you arrived at the Derry Town library?”

“I had arranged to meet Mr Hanlon at the library earlier that day, but when I arrived, I could hear a struggle. I rushed in, and Mr Bowers was on top of Mr Hanlon, holding a knife in his hand. I thought I saw blood and it looked like Mike had taken a beating.” It was easy to recall the scene. Richie tried not to think about it often, but the memory was easily accessible. “He was yelling, and Mike was screaming for help. I could see that he was about to stab Mike, and I knew I had to get him away. I reached behind me and grabbed an object - at the time I thought it was a walking stick or something - and I hit Mr Bowers with it.”

“How many times did you hit him?” Eddie said.

“Once.” Richie said.

“Then what happened?” Eddie asked.

“I threw up.” Richie said. “Then I helped Mike to his feet, checked that he wasn’t seriously injured. Then Mike got a call from one of the others - I don’t know who made the call - they told him that you’d been injured, and we rushed over there.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?” 

“I don’t know.” Richie said. “I think I was in shock. I should have called. I guess I thought we’d deal with the emergency and then go back.”

“No further questions.” Eddie said, sitting back down. Richie couldn’t tell from Eddie’s face whether he was happy with Richie’s responses.

There was a short recess, and Richie went outside for a smoke. Eddie stayed in the courtroom, going over his notes.

The prosecution opened the cross examination.

“I want to ask you to explain again what happened after you struck the fatal blow.” The prosecutor said. Richie replied carefully, only going over the lines he’d rehearsed with Eddie and with Steve, not deviating from the script and keeping his running commentary as an internal monologue.

“Did you attempt CPR or call 911 for medical guidance?” 

“No.” Richie said. “It was a chaotic situation.”

“Ah yes.” The prosecutor said. “Chaos seems to be a regular feature in your life.”

“Objection.” Eddie half stood up. “That’s not a question.” The objection was sustained. 

“You did not attempt first aid of any kind?” 

“No.” Richie kept his answer short, as Eddie had advised. He did not think it would help his case if he mentioned that Henry’s brains had been leaking out of his head.

“What was your state of mind that evening?”

“I was supposed to meet Mike in the library.” Richie said. “I was focussed on thinking about where we’d go for dinner.”

“So you wouldn’t say you were unstable at the time?”

“No.” Richie said.

“Could you tell me what happened on the night immediately prior to the incident?”

“I was doing a show in LA.” Richie said.

“And what happened at the show?”

“I performed my set.” Richie said.

“Nothing unusual happened?”

“I performed about half my set, and then had to leave the stage.” Richie said. He could see Eddie’s furrowed brow, and noticed that he had stopped taking notes. Eddie was clearly not liking this line of questioning. He looked between Richie and the prosecutor, with the air of a man looking for an excuse to stand up and lodge an objection.

“Why was that?” 

“I don’t know.” Richie said. “Sometimes performances don’t go as you expect.”

“So you didn’t have some kind of emotional breakdown that night?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it that.” Richie said.

“What would you call it?” The prosecutor said. 

“It was a bad gig.” Richie said. “It happens sometimes.”

“So in the twenty four hour period immediately prior to Mr Bowers’ murder, you had what you call a “bad gig” or what might also be called an emotional breakdown on stage in front of five hundred people.” The prosecutor stood, facing the jury, who were watching him attentively. Richie knew he shouldn’t have taken the stand. He knew it would turn out badly if he gave evidence. “Then you came to Derry, got drunk by the middle of the afternoon, assaulted - verbally - a young child and were involved in criminal damage at a local restaurant. You come across Mr Bowers in the library, and you hit him with an axe, killing him instantly, and flee the scene. You describe all this as stable behaviour?”

Richie kept his mouth shut. There was no way any answer to that question would look anything other than completely incriminating. 

“It’s not the kind of behaviour I would describe as stable.” The prosecutor said.

***  
Later, Richie and Eddie argued again about the wisdom of letting Richie take the stand. Richie was quick to anger, and the fight escalated to the point where Richie lit a cigarette in the apartment, in full knowledge that it would drive Eddie crazy. When he flicked the ash into the sink, Eddie stalked to his room and slammed the door.

Once Eddie was out of sight, Richie pitched his cigarette, sank to the kitchen floor, and pressed his face into his knees.

Richie had long mastered the art of crying silently. 

The trial was not going well. It had been dragging on for weeks with endless legal arguments and the prosecutor repeatedly trying to get Eddie thrown off the case, due to what he called Eddie’s conflict of interest. Eddie was a revelation as his lawyer, parrying each attack and holding on with a grim determination. Richie felt flayed open every day as he sat there wondering if the jury was seeing him as he saw himself, or how the prosecutor saw him. To the jury, he could be a madman, an out of control crazy person with a bizarre thirty-year grudge against Henry Bowers. Or he could be a reasonable man who’d saved the life of his friend.

He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.

He knew that he needed to have a conversation with Eddie. To tell Eddie not to sever any ties in New York, or anywhere else for that matter, on account of Richie. His mind kept circling back to the conversation with Bill, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that his silence, his inaction, was allowing Eddie to slide further into a monumental mistake. It would be catastrophic for Eddie to look to Richie for anything. Richie literally had nothing to offer.

At the same time, he had to sit with, and fully acknowledge, his own loneliness. Richie had been alone for years. He didn’t know why it was suddenly so painful to think about it. It must be something to do with the re-emergence of his memories and the knowledge that he’d once felt a sense of belonging. That he’d once been part of a group, instead of being on the outside looking in. Whatever it was, Richie felt an increasing sense of isolation, an absence of connection.

Richie, wiped his eyes on his sleeve, pulled himself to his feet and, figuring the damage was already done, lit another cigarette. This time he opened the kitchen window, and blew the smoke into the night. He caught sight of his red eyes in his reflection in the glass.

A thought bubbled up, from nowhere. What would happen if Richie pulled himself up through the window and let himself fall?

Richie’s suicidal thoughts generally tended towards tall buildings or fast trains.

The window was three stories up. Probably not high enough. 

“You won’t get your security deposit back.” Eddie said from behind him. Richie jumped back from the window. He had been so lost in the darkness of his own mind that he hadn’t heard Eddie come out of his bedroom. “The whole place will stink of smoke.”

“It’s just a cigarette.” Richie said, taking a drag, and keeping his face turned away. He didn’t want Eddie to see him like this. He didn’t want Eddie to know that he’d been crying.

“Take it from a non-smoker.” Eddie said, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of water. “The smell never really goes away.” Richie sensed, rather than saw, Eddie drinking straight from the bottle, hovering in his peripheral vision. “Are you OK?” Eddie said, maybe sensing that Richie was, in fact, quite far away from OK.

The thought of jumping out the window skittered across Richie’s mind again, as he said, “Yeah. I’m good. I’m just stressed.”

“If you need to talk....” Eddie said.

“Thanks Eddie.” Richie said, crushing the cigarette out in the sink. “But I’m fine. Really.”

Richie didn’t know if Eddie believed him or not, but Eddie retreated back to his room, and Richie lit another cigarette.

***  
Steve wanted to get Richie out of the house. Richie didn’t know why everyone was so obsessed with his vitamin D intake, but he agreed to join Steve for coffee in the park. He drew the line when Steve suggested they play a round of golf. Richie might be forty years old, but he was not turning into his father.

At the park, Richie had a brief, but intense, flashback, seeing Paul Bunyan’s statue wearing the clown’s face in his mind’s eye, and remembering the woosh of the giant axe. His mind connected the dots between the giant statue’s axe and the one he’d used in the library. He shivered, feeling the chill of early winter down to his bones. 

Steve bought the coffee and sat next to Richie.

“Is this an intervention, Steve?” Richie said, pre-empting Steve’s opening salvo.

“Yes.” Steve said, blowing steam away from his coffee cup.

Richie gestured for him to go on.

“I’ve only seen you this bad a couple of times, Rich.” Steve said. “I know you’ve got a lot of stress - a mountain of stress - so I’m not saying that I think you should be reclining in an armchair smoking a cigar, but I think you’re almost at breaking point. We need to do something before...” He trailed off.

“Before what?” Richie said.

“Before I’m looking for psychiatric facilities in the area.” Steve said. “I don’t know, man. I kind of think you need to be in one now. If it weren’t for the trial, I might have suggested this a while ago.”

“The trial’s going to be ending soon.” Richie said. “And if I get sent to prison, you won’t have to worry about finding me a nearby psych ward.”

Steve refused to be drawn. “Bill told me what happened at the farmers’ market.” He said.

“And what was that?” Richie said.

“You know what.” Steve said. “Eddie’s feelings for you. And, the elephant in the room, Richie, what you’re feeling about him.”

“It doesn’t matter what I’m feeling about Eddie.” Richie said. “Because he’s better off without me in his life. When the trial’s over - if I stay out of jail...”

“Will you stop talking about prison?” Steve snapped. 

“If I stay out of jail.” Richie said. “I’m going back to LA and Eddie will go back to New York to rebuild his life. We might see each other twice a year for a group reunion - if we can find the time between my tours and his, undoubtedly more important, role in the bank. So even if I thought Eddie would escape the black hole that my life has become, what would be the point?”

‘Oh Richie.” Steve said. “I know you can’t see it right now, but you and Eddie would be great for each other. I’ve only known him for a couple of months, but I can see you two working together.”

“That’s bullshit, Steve.” Richie said. “You, of all people, know exactly what a disaster I am at relationships. I’m forty years old, and my longest relationship was less than a year. People don’t stick around in my life. I find a way of alienating everyone.”

“You didn’t manage to alienate me.” Steve said.

“Yes, but I pay you to stick around.” Richie said. “If our fortunes weren’t tied together, you’d have run for the hills years ago.”

Steve laughed, but nodded in agreement. “True.” He said. 

Richie changed the subject, and because he was, after all, paying the bills, Steve let him.

***  
Richie was sleeping on the sofa. He’d been going through the court transcripts, thinking that he might find some nugget of information that would transform the case in his favour. Unfortunately, all he found was evidence supporting the prosecution’s case, and he’d fallen asleep with the papers scattered around the sofa. Someone (it must have been Eddie) had thrown a blanket over him.

He woke from a nightmare with a jolt into the pitch dark of the apartment. It took him a few seconds to realise that there was no glow from the streetlights, and the WiFi hub was dark. He pushed himself upright, the blanket pooling around his legs, and checked outside. It looked like a power cut, the whole street was dark. Richie could tell that the wind was up. It was a new moon, and the night was cloudy. The only light Richie could see from the window came from from the stars when the wind blew a break in the clouds. The dim illumination of the Milky Way lasted a few seconds before going dark once more. 

Richie’s phone was out of charge, but he thought there would be a flashlight in the kitchen. He wanted to get the papers into some kind of order before going to bed, where the power cut would be irrelevant, unless it was still ongoing in the morning. He carefully folded the blanket and placed it on the sofa, in an attempt to remove a trip hazard, and stood up. 

The darkness was dizzying and relentless. As he moved away from the window, the dark-grey of the cloudy night, was replaced by a pitch black apartment. He trailed his hand along the wall, feeling his way with his fingers, and feeling the imperfections in the drywall. He took two long steps into where he thought the kitchen island was, and hit the side of his knee against the counter.

He held in a curse that had great creative promise, not wanting to wake Eddie up, but he under-estimated the clattering noise that was an inevitable consequence of him rummaging through his kitchen junk drawer looking for the flashlight. 

He could hear Eddie moving about in his room, while Richie clattered around the kitchen. Richie’s hand found the flashlight, as Eddie emerged from his room, lighting his way with his cell phone. Eddie shone the light at Richie, dazzling him momentarily, and he swung the flashlight; casting a wide beam of light across the kitchen, offset by a wider beam of darkness.

“Power’s out.” Richie said.

“I can see that.”

“Looks like its the whole street.” Richie said, shielding his eyes from the glare of Eddie’s phone. Eddie took the hint, and angled the light downwards, hauling himself up onto a kitchen stool.

“It used to happen all the time.” Eddie said. “In my part of town, anyway.”

“Do you remember that time - we must have been about eleven or twelve - when the power went out for three days?” Richie said.

“That was the storm that started all this.” Eddie said, his face looking pale in the darkness.

The pieces slotted into place in Richie’s mind as soon as the words left Eddie’s lips. His brain didn’t work as fast as normal when he was depressed. Of course, that storm marked the start of everything. It was when Georgie had died, when he’d been murdered. Eddie looked stricken, and Richie imagined his own face looked similar, as the trauma of their childhood settled into his bones once again.

“Do you still have nightmares?” Richie said, taking a bottle of Eddie’s wine off the counter and pouring two glasses. He sat on the stool opposite Eddie.

“Yeah.” Eddie said, picking up his glass, but not drinking. “It’s usually the leper. I can’t seem to shake that one off. You?”

“Lately, it’s been Adrian Mellon.” Richie said. “Except in my nightmares, I’m Adrian.”

Eddie winced in sympathy. Richie was grateful that Eddie didn’t say anything more. Richie was aware how obvious he was. He didn’t need it pointing out. Richie himself didn’t need a psychology degree to have some insight into why it was the leper, of all the nightmarish things they’d seen, that still terrorised Eddie. 

They sat in silence for several minutes. Richie drank Eddie’s wine, and poured another generous glass. Eddie left his own untouched.

“There might be some candles under the sink.” Eddie said, sliding off the stool and using his phone to help him navigate across the kitchen. He rummaged around in the cupboard that was stocked with cleaning products (and was therefore unfamiliar to Richie), and came out with a pack of tea lights. Richie took his lighter out of his pocket and lit them, placing them in a row down the centre of the counter. 

The candle light was softer than the harsh glare of the flashlight and phone combination, throwing an orange glow over the kitchen. Richie felt cocooned in the orange light, bracketed on all sides by darkness, and feeling the effects of the wine he’d been drinking. A sense of unreality washed over him, as if the darkness of the night-time created a suspended pocket in time. 

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” Richie said. “Properly talk to you.”

“We talk all the time.” Eddie said.

Richie struggled to martial his thoughts. Now that he’d opened up the conversation, he knew he had to see it through. It was the right thing to do. “Bill told me something a while ago.” He said. “And because I’m an asshole, and a loser, and a coward, I’ve just been turning it over and over in my mind, until it’s a big unmentionable topic.” 

Eddie took hold of his wine glass and took a long drink. Richie thought he saw Eddie’s hand trembling as he put the glass back down, but it might have been an illusion caused by the flickering candlelight.

Richie took hold of his courage and pushed ahead. “I should have just talked to you Eddie.” His mother sometimes said that once you pushed the bolder down the hill, you had no choice but to let it roll. “Bill said that he’s been looking out for you. That you’ve been talking to him about why you don’t want to go back to New York.” And that was Richie pushing the bolder down the hill. Trouble was, he had no idea where it would wind up.

Eddie nodded, but didn’t speak. 

Richie was starting to lose his nerve. “He said that...” He faltered. “Bill said that you...”. 

Eddie’s silence was ringing in his ears. He must know where Richie was going with this line of conversation. He could help Richie out of this hole he was digging for himself, but was choosing not to. Fear settled into Richie’s stomach, accompanied by a sudden rush of reckless adrenaline.

Richie busied his hands pouring more wine into both their glasses, and wished, hard, for a cigarette, but he didn’t want to upset Eddie again by smoking in the apartment. “Bill said you told him that you’ve got feelings for me?” Richie couldn’t stop the rising inflection or the crushingly clumsy phrasing that made him sound like a middle schooler. He downed his wine, like it was soda, and sat there, practically vibrating with anxiety. 

Eddie’s face was turned away, shaded by darkness. He still didn’t speak. Richie recalled an article he’d read about how uncomfortable people found silences of only a few seconds. He clamped his mouth shut, to stop himself speaking into the silence.

“I need a cigarette.” Richie said, eventually, not trusting himself to word-vomit all over Eddie. He took the flashlight and picked his way through the darkness of the apartment. 

When he came back, wafting the smell of tobacco throughout the apartment, Eddie was still sitting on the same stool, but the wine on the counter had been joined by a bottle of gin, and Eddie was nursing a tumbler in both hands.

“Are you going to talk to me?” Richie said. 

“Sit down, Richie.” Eddie said, and Richie did.

He thought about blowing out the candles. It might be easier to sit through this if he didn’t have to look at Eddie. He fixed his gaze on the side of Eddie’s head.

“I don’t think we should be having this conversation now.” Eddie said.

“Why not?”

“I think you were right when you shut me down after...” He hesitated. “After what happened. I’m not sure you’re ready.” 

It was Richie’s turn to sit in silence. He didn’t want to get into another discussion with Eddie about his mental health, the side effects of his medication or whether he could be trusted to make his own decisions.

“I don’t want to have this conversation unless, until, you’re ready Richie.” Eddie said. “Will you let me have that?”

Richie nodded. “When?” 

“I don’t know.” Eddie said. 

***

It took Richie a few days to notice, but he and Eddie stopped talking after the power cut. They circled each other uneasily in the apartment, making stilted small talk over the breakfast bar. Eddie spent more time out, probably with Bill or Mike. Richie spent more time in his room.


	7. The Verdict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The jury is out. Richie is falling apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of suicidal thoughts - take care when reading.

It felt like the trial had become a permanent fixture in Richie’s weird new life in Derry. Every day followed the same pattern. Haul himself out of bed, shower and shave - it was important, according to Eddie, that he was clean shaven - dress in a suit and tie. Drive to the courthouse, smoke a few cigarettes leaned up against the brickwork, channelling his inner high schooler, and sit through a day in court that was either crushingly boring, or humiliating. There was no middle ground.

The one redeeming feature about the trial itself was having the chance to watch Eddie at work. He was impressive. Richie thought the trial would have been finished weeks ago, probably with the absolute worst outcome, if Steve’s guy had been representing him. The drag-out, knock down battle between Eddie and the prosecutor was a sight to behold. 

But the day came, as Richie knew it would, when the arguments came to an end, when both sides wrapped up their cases, and the jury retired to consider their verdict.

He was grateful that Mike and Bill were still in town, even though he’d rather sit and await his fate alone. Richie wasn’t sure where Eddie was, but he got the impression that Mike, Bill and Steve were tag-teaming, taking turns to sit with Richie in near silence. 

Richie, as much as he knew he’d never intended to kill Henry Bowers and that he’d acted on the spur of the moment, with no more premeditation than it took to grab the nearest thing at hand, had no idea how the next few hours, or days, however long it took, would play out.

“You doing OK?” Bill said, sitting in a plastic chair next to him, and handing him a styrofoam cup containing coffee from the machine in the corridor.

“Eddie says this is the worst part of the whole circus.” Richie said. “There’s nothing more anyone can do for or against me. It’s all in the hands of twelve strangers.”

“That’s how it goes.” Bill said. “At least it will be over soon. You must be looking forward to a time when you don’t have this hanging over you.”

“I don’t know, Bill.” Richie said, sipping the coffee with a grimace. “I kind of like my freedom.” 

“Eddie is optimistic.” Bill said.

“Is he?” Richie said. “I wouldn’t know what he’s thinking lately.”

“He said you’d been avoiding him.” 

“Me?” Richie said. “No, Bill. He’s been avoiding me.”

Bill ignored him, and changed the subject. “Let’s look on the bright side. What are you going to do when this is all over?”

Richie hadn’t really thought that far ahead. There was a block in his head, a barrier that stopped him thinking about the future beyond the decision that would seal his fate. He thought vaguely that he’d go back to LA, try to pick up what might be left of his career. But he didn’t really have a clear plan about how he might achieve that.

“Leave town and never come back.” Richie said. “At this point, even a prison cell somewhere outside Derry would be acceptable.”

Bill nodded. 

Richie was grateful that Bill was sitting with him. There was no doubt in his mind that Bill could be doing something - anything - better with his time than sitting in the hallways of the Derry courthouse. Richie was grateful, even though he didn’t understand why Bill was wasting his time with Richie. Surely Richie wasn’t worth it.

“Tell me what you’re working on.” Richie said, wanting something to take his mind off the waiting, and the possibility that he might be spending his last minutes (hours, days) of freedom in this hallway.

Bill started talking about his new novel. To Richie’s ears it didn’t sound too different from Bill’s other work. It was obvious that Bill was still using his fiction to process the trauma of losing his brother, and it was obvious that Bill’s marriage had not quite recovered from his abrupt return to the town where he’d spent his childhood.

Richie nodded and asked questions at the right time, but his mind was elsewhere. A substantial part of Richie’s attention was occupied with the task of waiting. Until now, he’d never really appreciated how much mental energy could be spent on the passing of minutes. He thought about times in his life when time has rushed forward relentlessly like a tide racing to the shore. And he thought about times when the clock hands seemed stuck in place, times when it seemed impossible that the next minute would ever come. Waiting in the courtroom corridor, Richie experienced both sensations simultaneously; time slowing like stretched taffy and racing forward. The white washed walls, the plastic chairs, the TV mounted on the wall in the corner, the sad looking potted plants, were stuck still, and he was stuck along with them. Part of the furniture. In contrast, the business of the court continued, people rushed past him in a flurry of activity. Phones rang. Lawyers held short conferences with their clients. 

Bill was replaced by Mike, who tried to distract Richie by telling him about his plans to swing down towards Nebraska over the holidays, maybe catch up with Ben and Bev. Mike was replaced by Steve, who sat silently beside him, looking as anxious as he was. Then Eddie came by and told them that the jury had been sent home for the evening, and that the waiting would begin again tomorrow.

Richie spent the evening in his living room, while Eddie, Ben, Mike and Steve passed around take-out and talked over him. Richie didn’t have anything to say, and he didn’t feel like eating. Mike was speculating that it was a good sign that the jury was taking its time, saying that it must mean that they were diligently looking over the evidence. Richie thought, but couldn’t bring himself to vocalise, that a snap decision would have meant that the jury had been convinced, one way or the other, by the testimony. 

He stood up, in the middle of a discussion about the individual members of the jury and how everyone thought they would vote, and went to the kitchen. He took his medication, including the extra dose, and went to his room. The pills helped him sleep.

The next day was the same. And the one after that. 

“How can it be taking them so long?” Steve said, in an unguarded moment of honesty. He’d been careful, up until now, to avoid saying anything that might trigger Richie’s anxiety. Richie was grateful and also mildly irritated that he was being handled with kid gloves. 

Anyway, there was no answer to that question. So he shrugged and continued waiting. 

Eddie’s face was getting paler and more drawn as time ticked on. This, more than anything, caused Richie’s stomach to churn and his pulse to race. The sight of Eddie looking scared, was the scariest part of this whole horror show. He’d faced a demon clown, had seen the corpses of his school friends and had been terrorized as a child, and yet the sight of Eddie looking scared, was almost as terrifying. 

It was after lunch on the fourth day, when the clerk of the court asked him and Eddie to make their way back to the courtroom. 

“This is it.” Eddie said. 

Richie - for all that he’d hated waiting - now wished for a few more hours to spend in the corridor. The corridor was better than the courtroom, he thought. 

Richie stood but didn’t move. Eddie turned back to him with that same scared face he’d been wearing since the jury retired. 

“If I don’t get the chance to say this after.” Richie said. “I want you to know how grateful I am that you’ve put your life on hold for me for the last few months.”

“You can thank me later.” Eddie said, with a tight smile that conveyed more anxiety than he probably knew. 

“You’ve done a good job as my lawyer, Eddie.” Richie said. “Whatever the outcome.”

“Shut up and get your ass in here.” Eddie said, holding open the courtroom door. 

Richie took a deep breath and walked in behind Eddie. 

The courtroom was unchanged since he was last here. Steve, Mike and Bill sat behind him. The bench was ahead and the jury box was to his left. He stood for the judge’s entrance and then watched as the jury filed in, taking their seats. 

The next few minutes were a blur. 

Richie heard the judge ask the jury if they had reached a verdict in respect of count one, that of first degree murder. The foreman stood and said they had. He confirmed that the decision was unanimous. 

Richie was listening intently, with a focus that felt razor sharp. Even so, he missed the verdict. He looked to Eddie, who grabbed his hand under the table and whispered, “Not guilty.” Richie exhaled, a shaky unsteady breath. 

On count two, that of voluntary manslaughter, the foreman confirmed again that the decision had been unanimous. 

Richie gripped Eddie’s hand tightly. He’d always thought the murder charge was a stretch, even given the prosecution’s attempts to make him sound like a madman on a rampage, but manslaughter was another matter. It was undoubtedly true that he had killed a man. His stomach lurched and his throat seemed to close, and he idly wondered whether this was how Eddie felt when he was having an asthma attack. 

“Not guilty.” 

Richie put his head in his hands, feeling some of the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders and in his spine drain away. Distantly, he heard sounds of congratulations coming from behind him, but his ears were ringing, and he missed what the judge said next entirely. He might have been thanking the jury for their service.

“You’re free to go, Mr Tozer.” The judge repeated, and Richie didn’t need to be told twice. He stood and raced out of the courtroom. 

Eddie caught up with him in the same corridor where he’d sat in horrible expectation of an outcome that would ruin his life and strip him of his freedom. He threw his arms around Richie. “It’s over.” Eddie said.

Richie was embarrassed by the speed which his eyes filled with tears, he blinked them back. Mike barrelled into them, enveloping both of them in a massive hug. 

“Let’s get out of here.” Mike said. 

Richie was swept up in the whirlwind of Mike, Bill, Eddie and Steve, as they hustled him out of the courthouse. Richie felt no sorrow to be leaving the place that had occupied his weekdays all this time.

***

Mike and Bill left town the next day. They had lives to get back to. It was understandable. Richie waved them off from the apartment, with a promise to meet up soon, and Eddie drove them to the airport.

Steve dropped by to talk to Richie about his strategy for getting Richie’s career back on track. Richie nodded at the right times, and agreed with Steve’s suggestions. He was trying to conceal his lack of interest, but he was struggling to get excited about the prospect of going back on the road, or doing chat shows.

“You’re still not doing well.” Steve said, in a tone that would brook no dissent. He looked intently at Richie. “I was hoping that you’d bounce back after the verdict.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Richie said. 

Steve nodded. He took a deep breath, and, oh boy, did Richie know what was coming next. If Richie’s thoughts had power, Steve would not say another word. He’d exhale with no words vibrating through the air. 

“You’re right, Richie.” Steve said, shattering Richie’s hope that he might avoid this conversation. “I do know better.” There was a long pause, and Richie thought maybe Steve would drop the topic. He knew that it would come up. It was as inevitable. He’d just been hoping for a few days’ grace. “I think you need to check into a facility. Have some therapy, get someone to take a look at your medication.”

“OK.” Richie said. “I’ll go when we get back to California.”

Steve looked relieved, like he’d been expecting more of an argument from Richie. “I’ll book the flights and make the call.” Another pause. “Richie, how bad is it?”

Richie didn’t know how to answer that, so he didn’t. Instead he changed the subject. “Has Eddie told you if he’s going back to New York?”

“I think he’s torched his old life.” Steve said. “He’s going to be starting from scratch. Are you going to talk to him before we leave?”

“I don’t think it’s the right time.” Richie said. “I know I’ve been functioning,” Steve scoffed a bit at this. “I’ve been dealing with the stress of the trial, and being here in Derry, in my own way. And, don’t get me wrong, I know I need some help to get better.” Richie stopped talking. He was starting to ramble. “What I’m trying to say is I think I’m probably more depressed than you might think. I’ve been getting up, I’ve been at the fucking court every day, I’ve been talking to you guys. And I think I’ve been telling myself that it’s not that bad, when it is. It is bad.”

“How bad?” Steve said.

“Bad like suicidal thoughts.” Richie said, knowing exactly where this admission would lead him.

“Do you have a plan?” Steve said.

Richie shook his head. “No, Steve.” But that wasn’t strictly true. Richie’s plan had been the same since college, but he knew there was a difference between an active intent and a back-up plan, of sorts.

Steve exhaled a shaky sounding breath. “That’s good, Rich.” He said. “But I still think we need to get you some proper help.”

“I’ll book myself in to the clinic.” Richie said. “You can book the flights.”

“Already done.” Steve said. “We leave tomorrow.”

***

There were two months still to run on Richie’s lease. Eddie asked if it would be OK if he stayed on for a couple of weeks. This might have opened up a conversation between Richie and Eddie, which needed to happen, if only so that Richie could find out if Eddie was going back to New York or not. Only Eddie didn’t ask Richie directly, he asked Steve.

Richie told Steve to tell Eddie it would be fine. He also asked Steve to try to find out what Eddie’s plans were. Steve refused, saying that he wasn’t a thirteen year old girl passing messages in middle school. He also declined Richie’s invitation to spend their last evening in town together.

Richie was in his room, packing up most of his stuff, and resigning himself to a big charge at the airport for his overweight bags. He had no emotional attachment to most of this stuff, most of it duplicated things he had in LA, but he didn’t want to leave a mess for Eddie to sort out. He figured he done enough of that these past months.

Eddie knocked, and stuck his head round the door. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.” Richie said, moving his suitcase off the bed. “Come in, have a seat.” 

Richie didn’t think Eddie had been in his room since he’d moved in. Eddie surveyed the chaos, picked his way cautiously through the items on the floor and sat down on the edge of Richie’s bed.

“What time’s your flight?” Eddie said, sitting awkwardly with his hands on his knees.

“Check in at noon.” Richie said, trying to stuff a hoodie into a leather hold-all that was already bursting at the seams. He gave up, and sat back on the floor.

“It’ll be good to sleep in your own bed again.” Eddie said. 

Richie knew Eddie was trying to reach out. To end the silence that had grown between them. Richie should say something light and charming, something Eddie could bounce off. Something that would get them back to where they’d been, before the awkwardness crept in. 

Instead he said, “I won’t be sleeping in my bed for a while.” Eddie raised an eyebrow, but before he could speak, Richie pushed on. “I’m going to be in the hospital. I think it’s where I need to be right now.”

“Oh.” Eddie said, with an upset expression all too familiar to Richie on the faces of people forced to come to terms with the reality that was Richie’s life.

“It’s OK, Eddie.” Richie said. “It just one of those things.”

“Why do you do that?” Eddie snapped, standing up and causing a stack of books to topple off the end of the bed. Richie didn’t know why he’d bought them. They were all unread, and would only take up valuable space in his luggage.

“Do what?” He said.

“Talk like it’s inevitable.” Eddie looked like he wanted to pick up the books, and probably throw them at Richie.

“It is.” Richie said, taking a breath. It always came down to this in the end. People always though that if Richie worked harder, meditated more, went to therapy; then he wouldn’t need the drugs, and wouldn’t end up in the hospital. “It is inevitable.” Richie said. “It’s a cyclical illness. It comes and goes. And a long period of stress, bracketed by a killer clown and a murder charge, is an obvious trigger. It’s not remarkable that I’ve gone off-track, it’s remarkable that I got through it without crashing earlier.”

Eddie deflated and sat back down. He didn’t say anything.

“It’s not a moral failing, Eddie.” Richie said. “It’s not something that will go away if I try harder, or get stronger.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Eddie said, but Richie thought that was exactly what Eddie had meant.

“Look Eddie, I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.” Richie could feel his own temper rising, he forced the zipper of his hold-all until it was straining against the leather and was on the verge of splitting. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m not going to slit my wrists in the bathroom and leave you with a bloody mess to clean up.”

“Jesus, Richie.” Eddie looked horrified.

“I’m sorry Eddie.” Richie said. “If my mental illness offends you.”

“Your mental illness does not offend me. Jesus Christ.” Eddie said. “And don’t ever talk to me about suicide like that again. The thought of you thinking like that...” Eddie trailed off, but Richie could fill in the blanks; Eddie truly could not cope with the reality of Richie. 

“I need to finish packing.” Richie said. This conversation, which could have bridged the gap (surely that was what Eddie had intended) that had grown between them, had gone south, to the point where Richie didn’t even want to talk to Eddie anymore. He’d spent his whole life watching people walk out the door, because, in the end, Richie was too difficult to handle. He was too unstable, too highly strung, too energetic or too lethargic. It shouldn’t surprise him that Eddie was the same as everyone else.

Eddie stood up and walked to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He said, stepping into the hallway. “Good night Richie.”

***

The next morning, Eddie went for a run. Richie heard him clattering around in the kitchen, before the main door slammed, too loudly for the early hour. Richie hauled his ass out of bed, and made a coffee.

He was standing at the counter, when he realised he couldn’t face a drawn out goodbye with Eddie. If that made him a coward, then so be it. He wasn’t due at the airport for hours, but Richie called a cab and left before Eddie returned. 

As the cab drove towards the Derry city limits, Richie felt an unexpected melancholy descend upon him. He wanted to leave Derry and never come back. There were too many terrible memories here, too many bittersweet memories. Richie thought back to elementary school, to a time before the kids started going missing, when Richie’s only worry was whether he’d get a genuine Sony Walkman for his birthday, or if his Mom would opt for a cheaper brand; or if he’d ever learn the yo yo.

It had been a good childhood. True, he’d done his share of running from the bullies, but his early childhood years had been filled with the kind of trivial concerns that marked him as a comfortably middle class and well cared for boy. Richie never worried where the next meal was coming from, or where he’d be sleeping. He never heard voices raised in anger.

And then the clown had killed Georgie, and everything changed.

The fear of that summer had tainted the rest of his life. Even after he’d forgotten, the tendrils had still been wrapped around his core. His relationship with his parents had been tainted by the erasure of their memories, his lovers had sensed that they’d never really get to know the real Richie, and accused him of always holding back. He’d forgotten the friends who had made him the best, most courageous version of himself.

When Mike called them all back, and for all this time in town, Richie had wanted to burn Derry to the ground, and the clown along with it. It was only now, sitting in the back of the cab, watching the familiar landmarks zip past, that he realised that Derry had given him his memories back, and had given him his friends back.

He was sad to leave, it turned out. God, he was messed up.

Steve found him at the Starbucks at the airport.

“You’re early.” Steve said, slinging his carry on onto the chair next to him, and sitting down with a thunk. The airport tannoy was announcing a final call to a flight to North Carolina. Richie tuned it out, slurped some coffee and tried to suppress the jitters that came from having six coffees in the space of two hours.

“I guess so.” Richie said, tapping his fingers on his thigh.

“I thought we’d share a cab.” Steve said, wrestling his cup lid off, so he could add several packets of sweetener.

“I needed to get out of the apartment.” Richie said.

“How was Eddie?” Steve said. 

“I don’t know.” Richie replied, pickling at the seam of his jeans to stop his fingers jittering. “I’m not good at goodbyes.”

Steve gave him a look that Richie knew well. It was a face that said Richie was an A-grade idiot. Steve shook his head. “It’s your call, Rich.” 

Richie knew it was his call. But he also had last night’s conversation running through his head. He’d ended the conversation feeling like Eddie had been judging him, and had found him lacking. He wasn’t too sure exactly what Eddie had found lacking; moral fibre? Strength of character? He didn’t know. He just knew that he’d felt diminished by Eddie’s inability to really see him for what he was, or to understand the challenges he faced. 

Maybe he just needed to get himself to the hospital. Maybe he should avoid people altogether until he was feeling better. 

Steve looked thoroughly disappointed in him, another face Richie was very familiar with, and took himself off to the automated check-in kiosk. 

In the end, Steve gave him a break and the flight was uneventful. By early evening, he was in a cab, heading towards his apartment. Steve came with him, making up a lame excuse about wanting to check that the housekeeping service he’d been paying for had been doing a good job. Richie knew that Steve would not leave him alone now, until he was safely in the hospital. 

The apartment was clean, but had a stale smell due to a lack of ventilation. The windows hadn’t been opened for months. There was a bottle of vodka in the fridge, and a six pack. It was good to be home. Richie left Steve ordering take out and went to his room. He sat on his bed, but it had a strange, unfamiliar feeling. He wondered what Eddie was doing. 

Richie checked his phone. Bill had sent a text that just said ‘what the actual fuck, Richie?!’ He didn’t reply. There was nothing from Eddie. Richie deserved no less. 

Had he behaved unreasonably, not saying goodbye to Eddie? Richie didn’t think so, but he knew from experience that his judgement sometimes (often) took temporary leave when he was in the midst of an episode. 

Richie felt exhausted. He was glad to be home. He was grateful to be in the warmth of LA and not in the cold, northern state of Maine. He was happy to be out of Derry, he was. But he was suddenly crushingly lonely. His friends in LA (with the exception of Steve) we’re all transient - even the people he’d known for years would step over him on the street if a better, more interesting prospect showed up. LA was a city of fake friends. Richie felt this acutely now. 

He told Steve he was welcome to stay over, if he wanted to. It was a courtesy Richie showed to himself, pretending that he had any influence at all over whether Steve would leave him alone. The spare room was pretty much only ever used by Steve when he was keeping Richie under 24-hour surveillance. He said he was tired, and took himself to bed. The sheets were clean and fresh, and Richie was once again, eternally grateful that Steve was in his life, to take care of the details that would only ever occur to Richie when he returned home to find dirty linen that hadn’t been washed for six months. 

***

The next day, Steve drove Richie to the very well-appointed (but still throughly grim) psychiatric hospital. He checked himself in, surrendering his phone, his belt and his trainers. Richie didn’t think he’d be out by Thanksgiving at the end of the month, but he was hopeful that he might make it out by Christmas. 

Even the most expensive psychiatric hospitals still had locked wards. Fixed routines. An expectation that patients would take their meds as prescribed and engage with their scheduled therapies. Richie was an old hand, but it never got any easier. 

At least he was a voluntary admission, and at least he could afford a private room.

The medication knocked him down for a couple of weeks. They increased his Seroquel and added a couple of anti-depressants. It made him sleepy and sluggish. They talked to him about starting on Lithium again. Richie told them it made him feel like a zombie, and they nodded and wrote notes in his chart. They talked about managing stress, the importance of keeping strict routines, sleep hygiene, maintaining a mood chart, understanding his triggers. Other than the pharmaceuticals, things hadn’t changed all that much since his first time in a psych ward.

One or two of the other patients recognised Richie, which was a little embarrassing. But the psych ward was all about peeling back all the layers and facing up to reality. Richie’s ego took a battering in the service of getting him back on track.

***  
Richie was cleared for discharge a week before Christmas, with a clutch of prescriptions and a regular appointment with his psychiatrist. Steve picked him up.

“How are you doing?” Steve said, as Richie climbed into the car, tossing his bag on the backseat.

“Better.” Richie said. It was true. He’d worked through the worst of the early side effects of his latest cocktail of drugs, and his mood had stabilised. 

“You look good.” Steve said.

Richie turned his phone over in his hands. He hadn’t turned it on since he’d first been admitted. “Do I want to look?”

“Maybe leave it a couple of hours.” Steve said. “I briefed the press that you were in rehab again. On the bright side, you’ll get a few talk show bookings out of this, and the trial. Get your face back out there.”

“Urgh.” Richie said, pocketing his phone. He knew that Steve probably had the best strategy to rescue his career, but Richie didn’t need to like it. He hated talk shows. They were a necessary evil when he had a tour or show to promote, or when he needed to resurrect his reputation. They made him feel somewhere between a dancing bear and a cheap whore.

Richie made Steve stop on the drive back, so he could have a cigarette by the roadside. Steve leaned against the car with his hands in his pockets. 

“Are you going to ask me?” Steve said.

“Ask you what?” Richie said, taking a long drag. He’d been allowed to smoke in the designated area outside the hospital, once he’d earned enough privileges, but there was something good, refreshing, about being able to smoke wherever he wanted to. 

Steve just shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.” Which guaranteed that Richie would, in fact, worry about it. “You need to get back to your apartment, adjust to being out.” Richie understood that Steve had a point. He was better, more stable, but still fresh out of the psych ward, and fragile.

Richie didn’t like feeling fragile. He knew it wasn’t weakness that landed him in the hospital, despite what his own treacherous mind told him when he was depressed, and he knew it wasn’t a moral failing. It was an illness, the same as any physical malfunction. He needed to treat it, manage it. He knew all this intellectually, but it didn’t do much to change the way he felt, in his guts, that he was responsible for his moods.

He got back into the car, and ignored Steve’s over the top grimace about the smoky smell he bought with him. The drive back to LA was uneventful. Richie kept his phone switched off.

***

The next day, Richie slept in and headed straight to the bakery on the corner for a fresh coffee and a pastry. The hospital had been regimented, with early starts and near-constant therapeutic interventions, and the food had been terrible. It was good to be able to ignore the good advice about maintaining a strict sleep schedule, and eat decent food. The bakery was close enough to be a constant temptation.

He sat on his balcony, in a light shirt, enjoying the sunshine and his breakfast. There would have been snowfall in Derry by now. Richie was, once again, happy to be away from that hellmouth of a town, but he was also relieved that he hadn’t forgotten everything again. His memory remained as sharp as ever, with the notable exception of the time he’d spent in the sewers.

He might as well get it over with, he thought as he sat with his phone and laptop, both switched off still. He couldn’t put it off forever. He’d have to face the online world at some point. His future employment was intrinsically linked to his public profile, and his marketability was linked to his social media. Steve employed a girl to handle most of his professional posts, and she would have kept his feed up to date. Still, Richie could not just disconnect indefinitely.

He picked up his phone, and powered it on, lighting a cigarette as he waited for the notifications to land. 

Of course, it wasn’t the potential public backlash from his spell in “rehab” that was making his stomach churn. The rehab cover story actually worked in his favour with certain elements of his fan base. He guessed it made him seem edgy, more relevant. He was sure there would be many messages of support and solidarity, along with the more critical comments.

Richie was stewing in anxiety because of the way he’d left Derry, how he’d left things with Eddie. He thought back to their final conversation, and how angry and upset he’d felt at the time. He wasn’t able to discern, even with the benefit of hindsight, how much his depression had influenced his feelings at the time. It was always difficult to disentangle his emotions from the illness. Would he have reacted the same way if he hadn’t been ill? Richie honestly didn’t know. He was, he could now acknowledge with clarity, sensitive about how people reacted to his moods. Maybe over sensitive.

He was sure Steve would have been in touch with Eddie at some point while he’d been in the hospital. They’d struck up a proper bromance in Derry. Richie pictured them gossiping about him, and then admonished himself. He needed to be careful about projecting his most uncomfortable thoughts onto other people. It was one of the tenets of therapy. He couldn’t possibly know what had been going on in Eddie and Steve’s minds. Nevertheless, he was confident that Eddie would have been told where Richie had been for the last six weeks.

His phone lit up with notifications. There were over a thousand notifications on his WhatsApp. Four hundred emails. Eighty seven texts. 

Richie put out his cigarette, took a swig of his cooling coffee, and picked up his phone. He started with the WhatsApp. 

There seemed to be some kind of running gag between the Losers on the group chat. Something to do with the apparently terrible ending to Bill’s latest book. Richie scrolled through a few of the messages, but there was no way he was going to get through all of them. He closed WhatsApp.

There were two messages from Eddie, buried in a pile of messages from the Losers, one or two from his mom, and from a number of other people from Richie’s real life, his life before Mike’s call. Steve must have given out his new number.

He read the messages in chronological order. Most of them were a mix of condolences for ending up in rehab, and encouragement that he was in rehab. Only his mom and the Losers appeared to know that Richie had actually been in hospital.

It was a shame it was altogether too early for booze. Richie’s finger hovered over the text from Eddie. He lit another cigarette, sucked too hard and made himself cough. 

He opened the first text, and smiled as he read it. It was just one line, calling Richie out for leaving without saying goodbye, and calling him an asshole. Richie thought that was fair. He scrolled down. The last text from Eddie just said Richie should call him when he got out of the hospital. 

Richie didn’t know if Eddie was back in New York, if he’d picked up the reigns of his old life. He considered the possibility of not calling. Eddie wouldn’t reach out to him. The texts were as much of an olive branch as Richie would get. The second text was sent three days after he was admitted. Silence since then. Eddie didn’t participate in any of the group chats. Maybe he’d gone back to his wife. Maybe he was busy with work. Maybe he was regretting ever remembering Richie.

As if his finger was magnetised, Richie pressed the call button and spent the first few seconds, while the call was connecting, reconsidering the wisdom of calling. Was he ready to speak to Eddie? The call connected, and Richie heard it ringing through. It was too late to hang up now. He’d show as a missed call on Eddie’s phone.

It rang three times. The longest twenty seconds of Richie’s life, giving him plenty of time to think about what he should say. He wanted to apologise to Eddie, for leaving the way he did, for subjecting Eddie to himself at his worst, for not being able to read Eddie properly, to understand his motivations.

Eddie answered. “Hey Richie.” He said. His voice was warm, concerned. “Steve said you’d been discharged. How are you doing?”

Everything that Richie had planned to say evaporated from his brain. “Uh. Good. Better than I was, anyway.” It hit him that he’d really missed Eddie’s voice. God, he’d really missed Eddie. Full stop. He wasn’t sure what to do with this not-exactly-new information, but at least he could admit to it, in his own head. Progress, Richie thought.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d call.” Eddie said. There was a pause, and Richie could practically see Eddie weighing up the best way to proceed. “We weren’t exactly on good terms when you left.”

“Look Eddie, I am sorry for running out like that.” Richie said, figuring he might as well rip off the band aid. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Eddie didn’t disagree, which, again was fair.

“I was confused.” Richie said. “Not just because of the depression - although that didn’t help, obviously - but because of how things were with us.” And that was as far as Richie could go. He could open the door, but he needed Eddie to acknowledge the weird status quo they’d fallen into back in Derry. After what had happened, Richie couldn’t push. He couldn’t. Eddie needed to either shut him down (which Richie would get over, eventually) or reach out. 

Eddie did neither. “I don’t want to have this conversation over the phone.” He said. Richie didn’t know how to process that. God, you’d think Eddie was deliberately trying to torture him. He felt his anxiety spike and he lit another cigarette. “Are you up for a visitor?” Eddie said. 

“You could come for Christmas.” Richie said, his mouth, as usual, running before he engaged his brain, which then helpfully supplied him with an inventory of his near-empty refrigerator and lack of any kind of Christmas trimmings. 

“Sure.” Eddie said. “I’ll book a flight.”

Eddie promised to text him the details. Richie spent the next few hours making a list of everything he’d need to buy. It had been a while since he’d hosted Christmas. He used to spend the holidays with his family, until a couple of years ago when his mom and dad decided to go on a cruise, which became a regular thing. They’d invited him to join them, but Richie wasn’t a cruise kind of person. Although he loved them dearly, he couldn’t think of anything worse than being trapped on a boat with his parents for ten days. So he’d spent the last five Christmases alone, which was fine. He was used to it.

Eddie’s text showed he was flying in from Nebraska, not New York. Richie drew certain conclusions from this information, and had several questions. He concluded that Eddie must have been visiting Ben and Bev. Did that mean that he was doing a tour of all the Losers? And if that were true, did that mean that Richie was just another stop on the itinerary? If Eddie was not, currently in New York, did that mean that Eddie hadn’t been back at all since Derry? 

Richie took himself off to the store, with his shopping list, and with the questions echoing in his head. He examined his emotions, allowed himself to sit with them and name them. This was the healthy way to deal with shit, according to everyone at the hospital. It was a drill Richie knew well, by now. He was excited to see Eddie, anxious and a little off-balance. Eddie had said he didn’t want to have the conversation on the phone. That probably meant Eddie knew that the conversation would be heavy. That was either good news, or really bad news.

He wandered the aisles of Whole Foods, picking up vegetables and trying to work out which products were dairy free. He wound up standing in the bread section, like an idiot, reading ingredients lists and trying to work out if there was anything here that Eddie could eat. 

His mind was only half on the groceries. 

Richie was trying to come to terms with the, probably belated, conclusion that he definitely and unambiguously wanted Eddie to pick up what had started between them in Derry, hopefully without the uncertainty or the angst this time.


	8. Richie’s Appeal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie bakes Christmas cookies. What the hell is his life?

Eddie’s flight landed on Christmas Eve. He declined Richie’s offer to pick him up at the airport, with a snarky comment via text about Richie’s driving. So Richie busied himself decorating the small and quite pathetic artificial Christmas tree that he’d picked up from Target. He had a list of cooking-related tasks, along with timings that he’d checked and double-checked on the internet, attached to the refrigerator with a magnet. He was ready.

The timer on the oven buzzed, quite possibly for the first time since Richie had moved in, and he took out the crunchy-looking dairy free cookies out and set them on the counter to cool. 

He was not ready.

His fingers itched to call Steve and ask him for advice, but he knew Steve was visiting his brother for the holidays, and would be knee-deep in brightly coloured plastic toys belonging to his nephews. He couldn’t keep turning to Steve every time he felt insecure. He had Steve on speed-dial, but there were limits. Also, if Steve could see Richie now, wearing an apron and with flour on his jeans, actually baking cookies, Richie would never hear the end of it.

He was debating whether or not to try to knock up some more cookies, when the intercom squawked, and Richie buzzed Eddie up. He opened the door to his apartment, and hovered half in and out of the hallway, waiting for the elevator doors to open.

The doors pinged eventually, and Eddie emerged, dragging (of course) a huge suitcase behind him. 

“Eddie Spaghetti!” Richie exclaimed, pulling Eddie into a hug that went on a bit too long. 

Eddie muttered, “You know I hate it when you call me that” into Richie’s shoulder.

Richie stepped back, beckoning Eddie to follow him.

“It’s good to see you, Eds.” Richie said, heading for the kitchen. “Do you want a drink? A cookie? They’re gluten and dairy free.”

Eddie followed Richie, eyeing up the cookies with a slightly sceptical expression. “You made these?” He said. “Since when do you bake, Richie?”

Richie could feel a blush heat his cheeks. It was possible that the baking showed his hand. As in, it likely had. Richie deflected, weakly “It’s Christmas.” He said, busying his hands with the coffee pods, and fiddling with the machine. He turned back to Eddie with the coffees in one hand and a plate of cookies in the other.

“You look better.” Eddie said, and Richie could practically feel the weight of his gaze as it scanned him from top to toe. “You look good.”

“So do you.” Richie could feel a “talk” (with quote marks, in his head) coming at him. He was conflicted. He should want to run away, fast, from anything approaching emotional honesty. That was his usual playbook. Avoid. Deflect. Run. But he sat still, didn’t run either literally or by running his mouth as a defence mechanism, and studied Eddie out of the corner of his eye. He might have thrown out his playbook, but he wasn’t about to open up the discussion himself.

He watched Eddie take a bite from a cookie. Richie took a sip of coffee, which burnt the roof of his mouth.

There was also the complication of Richie’s recent mental state. The fact that he’d been out of the hospital for less than a week. The possibility that he’d completely misread everything about this whole situation, and the probability that Richie perhaps wasn’t ready to face up to his own feelings, never mind cope with anything that might come his way from Eddie.

There was no doubt about it. It wasn’t the right time. It might never be the right time.

But Richie sat still, facing forward, aware of Eddie eating a cookie and drinking his soy latte in his peripheral vision, and cradling his own cooling cup of black coffee in his hands. If Eddie had something to say, Richie would listen.

Eventually, Eddie put his cup down, and swivelled in his seat, so he was facing the side of Richie’s head. Richie considered staying still, but instead turned to look Eddie in the eye. It took more courage than Richie thought he possessed.

“We need to talk about what happened in Derry.” Eddie said, wearing a tight and tired expression that suggested he’d rather be talking about virtually any subject.

Richie didn’t trust himself to speak. For all the reasons to proceed with caution, or not to proceed at all, Richie’s fingers were itching to reach over and touch.

He nodded, gesturing for Eddie to continue.

“I wanted, no I needed, to apologise to you.” Eddie said, and Richie blinked behind his glasses. “I let things go too far between us. And I wasn’t a very supportive friend when...”

Richie cut him off. “You stayed behind to defend me, man. You couldn’t have been more supportive.”

“I meant, I wasn’t very supportive when you started to go off the rails.” Eddie said, and oof, that was harsh. Eddie had the good grace to look embarrassed by his unfortunate choice of words. “I pushed you into.... situations... that probably didn’t help your mental state.” 

This was Richie’s worst outcome. He wouldn’t say it was his worst nightmare because, obviously, the clown and Adrian Mellon’s corpse still occupied his sleep far too regularly, but this was up there. Eddie thought he’d pressured Richie, and worse still, he thought he’d contributed to Richie’s decline. “You didn’t push me into any situations, Eddie.” Richie said gently. “Apart from your relentless bullying about me taking the witness stand.” Richie sensed, rather than saw, Eddie roll his eyes at this. “And you didn’t have anything to do with my mental state. It was the stress, my own poor lifestyle choices and my wonky brain chemistry that made me flake out. Not you. It was never you.”

Eddie nodded. “I need to say something, Richie.” He said, with a pained expression, but didn’t continue. 

Richie watched, thinking that coffee was an inadequate beverage for this upcoming conversation. It was mid-afternoon, probably too early for hard liquor. Nevertheless, Richie stood, and took the vodka out of the refrigerator. When Eddie raised an eyebrow, Richie said, “C’mon Eds. It’s Christmas Eve.” He poured a couple of shots, and slid one over to Eddie. They both drank.

Eddie spluttered, coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“I kissed you because I wanted to.” Eddie said in a rush, so fast that it took Richie a couple of seconds to process what he’d said.

“OK?” Richie said, the question mark audible.

“But I was relieved when you blew me off, the next day.” Eddie said. Richie was about to disagree - he didn’t recall blowing Eddie off (bad choice of words, Richie thought) - but Eddie held his hand up, and Richie stayed quiet. “I was relieved because I am a coward.” Richie again, disagreed. Eddie was the bravest man he knew. Again, he stayed silent. Eddie flicked his gaze to Richie’s and then looked away again. “I wanted to kiss you. But I was afraid of the consequences.”

Richie didn’t need Eddie to extrapolate, he could list about half a dozen unpleasant consequences himself: Eddie was married, Richie was mentally unstable, Richie had been, at the time, facing a murder charge, Eddie wasn’t gay, at least as far as Richie knew, and Richie was a romantic disaster. Richie poured another couple of shots, which stayed untouched on the counter.

“I’ve been afraid of the consequences of kissing you for about thirty years.” Eddie said. “Somehow - and I have no idea how - even after I forgot you.” Eddie paused, and Richie opened his mouth to speak, although he had no clue what to say to that, but Eddie held up his hand, and Richie shut his mouth. It was probably for the best. “I don’t know if you’re in the right place to hear this right now. I don’t know if should be telling you this now. Or at all. But when you left Derry, I missed you. I missed you, Richie. I couldn’t breathe with missing you. It was worse than anything else that happened this year.” 

Richie was stunned into silence, but it didn’t matter, because Eddie was way into one of his hyperactive monologues. Richie remembered them well. They used to typically feature all the ways in which Richie was putting his life on the line by coming into contact with bacteria, or allergens or taking unnecessary risks on the monkey bars. He’d experienced more recent rants about the cleanliness of the apartment, the insanity of the DA and the prosecuting attorney, and the lamentable availability of organic food in Derry.

“I thought I’d lost you.” Eddie said. “I thought I’d fucked it up, by pushing you away, or by pushing you too far when you weren’t well enough to deal with it. I’ve been feeling like an absolute asshole, Richie. I’m so sorry about the mixed signals. The whole time in Derry, I wanted you, but I was scared and then all that stuff happened and... God, I don’t even know what I was thinking. All my life, I’ve been drawn to tall, dark haired men with glasses, and I’ve always been confused by it and shut it down every time, and I thought it was because I was afraid it meant I might be gay - not that there’s anything wrong with that. Then I realised I always shut it down because they weren’t the right tall guy with glasses.” He took a breath, and Richie watched Eddie’s blush sink from his cheeks, down his neck. “I don’t even know if you’re into me.” Eddie said.

Richie’s face probably blue screened, and he was certainly aware that his eyes were wide, unblinking behind his glasses. Eddie looked away, and his cheeks flamed scarlet. “I guess that answers my question.” He said. 

“No.” Richie spluttered. “No it doesn’t answer any question.” Eddie flicked a look at his face, before looking down at Richie’s hands, which were folded on the table, like he was holding himself back. Richie considered, for a split second, whether he should be making big decisions less than a week after being discharged from the psychiatric unit. It was almost certainly a bad idea. But it was Eddie, and Richie felt he’d waited long enough. Time to jump, fully clothed, in at the deep end. “I’ve loved you since seventh grade, you idiot.” Richie said, fully satisfied with the cartoonish double-take Eddie’s face did. 

“Why didn’t you say something?” Eddie said.

Richie counted the points on his fingers. “You are - or were? - married. You’re not gay. I am - and always have been - a mess. I thought I was pressurising you in Derry. I thought you were... ” Richie didn’t know how to phrase this delicately, so he just let his mouth run, unfiltered. “I thought you were hooking up with me, like... casually.”

“I’m not married any more.” Eddie said. “The divorce was finalised in November. I’m bisexual.” Eddie had a slightly pinched expression, looking like this was the first time he’d ever said that out loud. “I don’t think you’re a mess, Richie. Well, you are a mess. But I like it. And I’ve never been any good at casual relationships.”

When he said it, Richie knew it made perfect sense. He couldn’t imagine Eddie getting dirty, literally or figuratively, with random hook ups. “That explains why you’ve never had a blow job before.” He said. Richie’s mouth was, if nothing else, always on hand to sabotage him, but Eddie didn’t look embarrassed. He shrugged. “Oh my God, man.” Richie said. “You’re practically a virgin! That’s so wild.”

“Hardly a virgin. I was married for fifteen years.” Eddie said, dryly. 

So many comedic comments flashed through Richie’s brain, that he just couldn’t process them. He realised, now that it was back, that in the depths of his depression and with the trial pressing in on all sides, he’d lost the easy ability to switch between light and heavy topics. It had always been easier with Eddie than with any one else. He pushed a shot glass to Eddie, and took another shot himself, without using his hands, wrapping his lips around the glass and flicking his head back, letting the alcohol slide down his throat and winking at Eddie as he dropped the glass back onto the counter.

“Oh my God.” Eddie said. “Is this how you flirt? No wonder you’re single.”

“Don’t pretend that you’re not into it.” Richie said, teasing. “You could barely keep your hands off me in Derry.”

Another Eddie eye-roll. He was going to sprain his corneas at this rate. “Your seduction techniques need some work, Richie.”

“I don’t need to seduce you, Eds.” He talked over Eddie’s protest at the nickname. “You flew across country to make a grand declaration. You’re practically a sure thing at this point.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Eddie said. “What do I see in you?”

“Must be my rakish good looks.” Richie said. 

“It’s certainly not your brains or your witty personality.” Eddie replied.

Richie had missed this. He’d missed the back and forth between them. He’d missed the barbs and the sarcasm. “I missed you.” He said. The two shots of vodka has loosened him up, so his hand reached over and gripped Eddie’s. Eddie’s eyes locked on his, suddenly serious.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Eddie whispered. 

“Been ready since seventh grade.” Richie said.

“That’s not what I m...” Eddie managed, but was cut off when Richie leaned over and kissed him. 

It wasn’t a great kiss. Richie was unsteady, overbalanced as he leaned forward, and the angle was wrong. Their teeth clashed and Eddie wobbled on the high stool, as Richie’s weight leaned into him. He made an irritated huffing sound, and slid off the stool, moving to stand between Richie’s knees. He gripped Richie’s face gently between his palms, and kissed him, a scorching, hungry kiss that felt like it might burn Richie up from the inside. Richie’s hands found Eddie’s hips and dragged him closer, wanting to plaster himself as close as possible to the hard lines of Eddie’s body.

Eddie slowed the kiss until it was a languid, slow press of their lips, tongues hardly touching, and he threaded his hands into Richie’s hair, tugging gently in a way that made Richie’s nerves buzz, until Richie’s face was angled just right.

One minute in, and Richie knew he was well and truly fucked. 

Richie was undoubtedly more experienced, with men at least, than Eddie, but he felt swept away, as Eddie took control effortlessly. Eddie moved with purpose, fully confident in the pressure of his lips, the flick of his tongue, the scrape of his stubble against Richie’s cheek and the pressure of his fingers teasing Richie’s scalp. Richie gripped the fabric of Eddie’s pants and held on, embarrassed by the needy sounds coming from his own throat.

They broke apart, and Eddie looked at him with a raised eyebrow. 

“OK.” Richie said. “I take back the virgin comment.”

Eddie smiled. “I’ve had plenty of experience at kissing, Richie. I’m forty one years old. Can we move this out of the kitchen? It’s unhygienic.” Richie flashed back to sinking to his knees while Eddie leaned up against the refrigerator in the Derry apartment, which had been equally unhygienic, but he hadn’t heard Eddie complaining about that. He managed to suppress his sarcasm well enough that he managed not to speak, but his face probably conveyed his thoughts well enough. Richie was cursed with an expressive face. He could never play poker.

Before he could provoke Eddie into another verbal sparring match, Richie slid off his stool, and kissed Eddie again, enjoying his height advantage, feeling Eddie strain up, tilting his head back to reach his lips. He gripped Eddie’s biceps reflexively, when Eddie slipped his leg between Richie’s knees, pressing his hips in close. Richie could feel the hardening line of Eddie’s cock against his thigh.

He wanted to get Eddie’s clothes off, and he wanted to take his time. Richie didn’t know much about Eddie’s sexual history, other than he’d only had one blow job in his life (and even remembering this fact, caused Richie to simultaneously preen that he’d been Eddie’s first, and feel a deep sorrow on Eddie’s behalf for all the time he’d wasted), he knew Eddie had been married and he surmised that Eddie had no experience with other men.

“Bed or sofa?” Richie said.

“I flew out here to seduce you.” Eddie said, with a smirk. “I think I’d prefer to do it in a bed.” He paused. 

Richie led Eddie through his apartment to his bedroom. He knew Eddie would judge him later for the unmade bed, and the clothes that hadn’t made their way to the hamper, but it was too late to do anything about it now. Eddie’s lips were trailing kisses down Richie’s neck, and Richie was walked backwards until his knees hit his mattress, and he sat down. Eddie climbed into his lap, his knees on either side of Richie’s hips, holding onto his shoulders and kissing him aggressively. 

Richie slid his hands up under Eddie’s shirt, feeling the smooth slide of skin under his palms. Eddie leaned back into the touch, and away from Richie’s lips. Richie tried to chase him into another kiss, but Eddie held him back with a gentle hand to his chest.

“Are you sure about this?” Eddie said. “Really sure?”

Richie understood Eddie’s concern. Well, if he was honest, it was a little irritating. And also kind of cute. Eddie’s anxiety was grounded in care for Richie’s wellbeing. Richie ground his hips up, knowing that Eddie would feel the swell of his erection through his jeans. “I’m sure, Eddie.” He said. “C’mon, man, I’m not fragile. I won’t break. My dick is completely on board.”

“OK.” Eddie said, a little breathlessly, grinding down in Richie’s lap. Richie could feel the press of Eddie’s cock against his own, the warm expanse of Eddie’s shoulders under his palms, and the fabric of his shirt on the backs of his hands. Eddie smelled of clean laundry and his skin had a faintly citrus smell. Richie rubbed his cheek against Eddie’s jaw, feeling the rough drag of their stubble. It felt so good to be this close to him, to be free to touch him, to taste him.

Then Eddie’s hands were off his shoulders, and he was pulling Richie’s shirt up. Richie had to withdraw his own hands from Eddie’s skin so he could lift his arms, giving Eddie the freedom to tug Richie’s shirt up and off. He tossed it to the floor, where it joined several other garments. 

Eddie kissed him again, taking control with confidence and enough force that Richie moaned against his lips, as his cock twitched uncomfortably in his jeans, almost fully hard, and 100 per cent on board with bossy Eddie. Eddie’s hand tugged Richie’s hair, pulling his head back, to give him access to his neck, and he trailed a line of kisses from behind Richie’s ear to his collar bone, keeping a firm hold of the strands of hair wrapped around his fingers.

“How is this so hot?” Richie whined, grinding his hips up, seeking friction. Eddie rose up on his knees, and held his hips up, denying Richie contact, while he continued to use his lips and teeth to kiss his way up and down Richie’s neck. 

“Twenty seven years of repressed sexual tension.” Eddie said, punctuating each word with a kiss, and inadvertently (or maybe deliberately, Eddie could be a little shit at times) ratcheting Richie up another couple of notches, as the air from his words met his kiss-wet skin in the gentlest of caresses.

“Yeah.” Richie said, feeling his ability to form coherent sentences diminish.

“I know about the Kissing Bridge.” Eddie said, as he took pity on Richie, and ground his hips down. “The carving. It was you, wasn’t it?”

Richie could feel another layer of heat climb his neck and bloom on his cheeks. He tried to hide his embarrassment by leaning forward to kiss Eddie’s collar bone, but Eddie tugged his head back gently, urging Richie to maintain eye contact. Eddie’s brown eyes were filled with silent mirth, and his eyebrow was raised, like a question.

“It was me.” Richie said. 

“When?” Eddie asked.

“Summer of 1991.” Richie said.

Eddie looked inordinately pleased, and leaned down to capture Richie in another scorching kiss, that Richie felt in his bones, in his soul. “I wish I’d had the courage to kiss you in 1991.”

“I wouldn’t have known what to do with you back then.” Richie said, tugging Eddie’s shirt up, until Eddie got the message, and pulled it over his head. “This is better. I’m about 50% less idiotic now.”

“I don’t know about that.” Eddie muttered, as Richie’s hands skimmed over Eddie’s skin. Eddie’s torso was a contradiction of toned abs and well-formed pectoral muscles contrasted against the mess of scar tissue just right of the centre of his chest. “You can touch it. It isn’t painful.” Eddie said. “The entry wound is worse.” He slipped off Richie’s lap and turned, showing the larger scar on his back, before straddling his thighs again. Richie touched the scar softly. 

“Two inches to the left.” Richie said, trailing his fingers the all too short distance from the scar to the position of Eddie’s heart. Two inches to the left, the injury would have penetrated his heart, and Eddie would have been dead before he’d hit the floor. Richie’s words dried up. He couldn’t actually say is out loud. Although his memory of how Eddie had been injured was hazy, he could clearly remember the horrific twenty minutes in the back of Mike’s car, his hands slippery with Eddie’s blood, watching his lips turn blue, and feeling his skin turn cold.

Eddie’s eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment and he leaned into Richie’s touch. Then he kissed Richie quickly and pushed him down onto the bed. Before Richie had time to process his new position, Eddie’s hands were at his fly, and his jeans were being tugged off his hips and down his legs. Richie scooted back, propping himself up on his elbows, and watching Eddie strip off his own pants. He climbed onto the bed, and plastered himself against Richie’s body. 

The thin fabric of their boxers left nothing to the imagination. Richie was hard enough to drill diamonds, and he could feel his cock twitch as Eddie’s hand skimmed lightly over it. He wanted friction, he wanted to feel the rough drag of Eddie’s hand over the hot skin. He touched Eddie’s cock through his boxers, and earned the pleasure of hearing Eddie’s breath catch and the pressure of his hips pushing forward. 

“I should have done this months ago.” Eddie said, bracketing Richie’s head between his elbows as he leaned against him, skin on skin. Richie gripped Eddie’s hips and ground up against him, feeling Eddie’s cock hard against his stomach, and his own pressing up against Eddie’s ass. “I need, god, I need to fuck you Richie.”

Richie’s brain short-circuited for a few seconds. He’d bottomed before, but it had been years since anyone had asked to fuck him. Richie was generally not with his partners long enough to really get into his preferences. “Have you done this before?” Richie said, shivering as Eddie’s fingers trailed across his skin, and tangled in his chest hair.

Eddie huffed with irritation, and rolled his eyes at Richie. “Not with a man.” He said, reluctantly. 

Richie smiled against Eddie’s skin. “It’s not like fucking a woman, Eds. There are a few more steps involved.”

“I know what to do. I’m not an idiot, Richard.”

“It’s not like porn in real life.” Richie said, using his superior height and body mass, to roll Eddie until he was straddling him, pressing him down into the mattress. Eddie wriggled underneath him, seeking contact. Richie kissed his way down Eddie’s chest, flicking his tongue over a nipple on his way down, feeling Eddie’s abs flutter under his lips.

“I.. ah...” Eddie seemed to be losing his thread. “I know porn isn’t real.” Eddie said. “But there aren’t many other sources of information out there...”

Richie felt the skin of Eddie’s thighs under his palms, before tugged Eddie’s boxers down and off. Eddie’s cock sprang free, rising to curve against his stomach, and Richie wrapped his hand around it, stroking slowly. Eddie made a choked off sound, that Richie wanted to hear more of, so he scooted down and wrapped his lips around Eddie’s cock, sliding down with his tongue flattened against the underside. Eddie’s head thunked down on the pillows and he squeaked, there was no other word for it. Richie anchored Eddie with firm hands on his hips, and bobbed his head, up and down, sucking Eddie’s cock slowly. One of Eddie’s hands landed in Richie’s hair.

Richie used his hands, his lips and his tongue until Eddie was making abortive vowel sounds in the back of his throat, and his hips were straining upwards. “Don’t let me come like this.” Eddie said, sounding wrecked.

Richie pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaning forward again, captured Eddie’s lips in a bruising kiss. 

“Can I fuck you?” Eddie asked again, breaking away from the kiss and gripping Richie’s ass. Richie could feel Eddie trembling under his hands. “Please, Richie, please.”

Richie could only manage an inarticulate nod, in response. He fumbled the lube (half empty, don’t judge) and a box of condoms (un-opened) out of his bedside table, and dropped them unceremoniously on the bed. Eddie blinked up at him, and Richie thought Eddie’s research must have been inadequate, because Eddie looked like he had no idea what to do to get the show on the road. 

Richie poured some lube onto his hand, and reached back to open himself up. 

Eddie made a punched out sound, and he propped himself up on his elbows. “Can you lie on your back?” He said. “I want to see.” 

Richie repositioned himself on his back, with his knees bent, and with Eddie kneeling next to him, wide-eyed. Richie’s cock was straining upwards, blood red and aching for attention, and his fingers were slippery against his ass. He slid two fingers in, moving them slowly, and gripped his cock with the other hand, to relieve some of the building pressure.

Eddie grabbed the lube and warmed some between his palms. He gripped one of Richie’s knees with one hand and slid his index finger inside him, alongside Richie’s own fingers. He seemed mesmerised by the sight of Richie spread out beside him.

“Oh god, Eddie.” Richie said, rocking his hips up and down, his breath starting to catch. 

“Do you need more?” Eddie said, and, at Richie’s uncoordinated nod, slid another finger inside. Richie slowed his hand on his cock, gripping it loosely as he fucked himself on his own fingers and on Eddie’s, feeling the stretch of them, and the sensation of their fingers touching inside him. He could feel himself relaxing into the feeling of being filled up, while pleasure was coiling in his stomach and sparking out from his core. 

When Eddie’s fingers curled inside him, skimming his prostate, most likely accidentally, the spark of arousal flared, incandescent, and Richie’s body jerked, and a string of incoherent sounds escaped his throat. In most other circumstances, Richie would be embarrassed, but Eddie, for his part, looked overwhelmed. His hair was a wild mess, and his eyes flitted between Richie’s face and the place where his fingers were disappearing into Richie’s body. 

“Jesus Christ.” Eddie whispered. “I think I’m going to die if I don’t fuck you right now.”

Richie fumbled the box of condoms, and managed to get a foil packet out. He passed it to Eddie who rolled it on. “Now, Eddie.” Richie said. “C’mon, man.” 

Then Eddie was kneeling between his thighs, running his hands from Richie’s knees to his crotch, and lining his cock up with Richie’s entrance. He pressed inside, and Richie held his breath, feeling an almost-painful stretch that was so good. Eddie was inside him, all the way, and was holding himself stiff above Richie, like he was scared to move. Richie rocked his hips. “Come on, Eddie.” He said. “Fuck me.”

Eddie started to move, tentatively at first, then more confidently, thrusting into Richie until Richie had to brace his arm against the wall, to stop his head hitting the wall with each snap of Eddie’s hips. His other hand grasped Eddie’s waist, pulling him closer, until they were kissing as Eddie continued to move. 

Eddie found a rhythm that caused stars to burst behind Richie’s eyes, and pleasure to coil up his spine and down to his toes. Eddie’s name was on Richie’s lips like a litany, a Hail Mary, a prayer. Eddie was less coherent, only managing choked off vowel sounds into the skin of Richie’s neck. 

Richie was struck with a wave of intense emotion, strong enough to sweep him under. He closed his eyes, aware of the way his glasses bounced on his nose every time Eddie’s hips snapped forward, and feeling every nerve ending in his body calibrate to the points of contact between them. It was almost too much. Too intense.

The friction on his dick from Eddie’s stomach was delicious, but was not enough. Richie snaked a hand between them and took hold of himself, stroking fast, in counterpoint to Eddie’s thrusts. He wanted these sensations to last and last, but his body was rushing to the brink of orgasm. Richie floated on the edge for a few incredible seconds, until Eddie thrust deeply into him, and Richie came with Eddie’s name on his lips.

When Richie came back to earth, a few moments later, Eddie looked absolutely wrecked above him. He was biting his lower lip, his eyes were screwed shut and Richie could feel the tremors through his body as his thrusts became erratic. Richie braced one hand against the wall again, rocked his hips, and threaded his other hand in the soft strands of Eddie’s hair. Eddie snapped his hips one last time, and Richie could feel him spasm inside him as he orgasmed.

Eddie pulled out and collapsed on to him, like his strings had been cut, pressing his face into Richie’s neck. Richie petted his hair, and stroked his back, not wanting to lose the intoxicating sensation of skin on skin.

Eventually, Eddie lifted his head and looked him in the eye. He smiled. “Wow.” He said. 

“I think you fucked the sense out of me.” Richie said, running his fingers down Eddie’s sides, and feeling the tacky semen cooling on his stomach. It was kind of gross, but Richie didn’t want to move. He didn’t want Eddie to move. He leaned forward and captured Eddie’s lips in a gentle kiss.

“My brain is still offline.” Eddie said. “Or I’d have a snarky come-back.” He kissed Richie’s nose. “I need a shower.” He rolled off to the side, laying on his back. Richie propped himself up on his elbow, watching Eddie stretch out on the bed, like he belonged there. 

Richie realised he didn’t want Eddie to leave.

This wasn’t exactly breaking news. At least, it wasn’t in Richie’s own head. He’d been coming to terms with his feelings for Eddie, at a glacial pace, since that night at Jade of the Orient, when Richie had banged the gong to convene the Losers’ reunion, and Eddie had looked up at him with those big brown eyes, and told him to fucking sit down and stop making a spectacle of himself. Whatever had been germinating between them all those months in Derry, was now in full bloom. Richie wanted Eddie to stay; but if he couldn’t, Richie would follow him back to New York or wherever he went.

They showered, and Eddie ordered Chinese take-out, which they ate on Richie’s leather sofa dressed in boxer shorts, while watching a Marvel movie. They were engaged in a long-standing debate about the relative merits of Batman versus Iron Man. Richie was steadfastly team Batman. He’d been true to his allegiance for over thirty years. Eddie was less loyal, flitting between various heroes as a kid. 

“Batman isn’t even a superhero.” Eddie said, a well-worn argument he’d been making since he was thirteen. “He’s just a rich guy with a grudge.”

“Iron Man’s a rich guy with a suit.” Richie said. “Dude isn’t even skilled in martial arts.”

Eddie poked him in the ribs. “Iron Man,” He said. “Invented the Arc Reactor.” 

Richie opened his mouth to respond, when Eddie’s phone buzzed. Eddie reached for it. “It’s Bill.” He said, flicking the answer button. Bill’s face popped up on FaceTime. “Hey Bill.” Eddie said, angling the phone so he was the only person visible, and Richie felt a bloom of hurt in his chest. Eddie didn’t want Bill to know about them. 

Richie wouldn’t blame him. For all the well-worn reasons that had stopped Richie acting on his attraction to Eddie on day one of the reunion, Richie would understand if Eddie didn’t want people to know. It would be a bitter pill to swallow, but Richie understood. He tuned out of the conversation that was happening between Bill and Eddie, wondering if Eddie needed privacy, but not wanting to move in case Bill saw or heard him.

“Richie.” Eddie said, waving the phone in his face, snapping Richie out of his spiral. “Stay hi to Bill. Stop being weird.”

Richie leaned over so the camera captured him and Eddie. “Hey Bill.” He said. “Happy Christmas.”

“Congratulations!” Bill said with a beaming smile. “I knew you two would get your heads out of your asses eventually. I told Eddie to go for it months ago and he said...”

Richie watched as Eddie’s cheeks turned red. “Shut up, Bill.” Eddie said, gripping Richie’s hand in his. “We’re together. It’s great. Now let’s move on.’

Richie stepped in. “What are you doing for Christmas?” 

Bill started talking about spending Christmas in a Colorado chalet with Audra, who had, according to Bill, almost forgiven him for his multiple disappearing acts earlier in the year. It sounded idyllic. Eddie kept the phone angled so they were both in shot, and he snaked his arm across Richie’s shoulders, pulling him closer, as he talked about the month he’d spent in Nebraska with Ben and Bev. Richie interjected with jokes, and pointedly refused to talk about his spell in the hospital. 

“I’m going to arrange a group-chat for tomorrow.” Bill said. “So you can share your news, and we’ll see who won the betting pool. Mike’s been holding the pot.”

Eddie flipped the bird, using the hand that was stroking idle shapes onto the skin of Richie’s shoulder, and Bill laughed as he hung up.

“So Bill knows.” Richie said. 

“Everyone will probably know within the next five minutes.” Eddie said. “Bill is a gossip.” Eddie moved so he was kneeling on the sofa, and Richie was looking up at him, trying not to be distracted by the sight of Eddie’s body. “Is that OK with you? We haven’t exactly talked about, well, anything. You might want to keep things between us, for a while. Oh god, did I just out us before you were ready?”

Richie gripped both of Eddie’s hands. “Eddie, calm down.” He said. “It’s all fine. I don’t care about who knows.”

“Oh OK.” Eddie said, sitting back down, so their shoulders were touching. “That’s good.” 

They fell silent. Richie could feel a new kind of tension build between them. The TV was paused, and the silence grew thick. He sensed Eddie sneaking looks at him, but every time he looked over, Eddie was facing forward. He got the sense that “A Talk” was heading his way, even though it was entirely too soon to label whatever this was between them. It was a new sensation for Richie, that he wanted it to happen, he welcomed it. He might even open his own mouth and let the words out. Usually, it was Richie’s playbook to run for the hills anytime a serious discussion was looming.

“Eds...” He said, as Eddie said “Richie...”. 

Richie had limited experience of serious conversations. He had a long and well established track record of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, at inadvertently fucking himself over, making colossal mistakes. His mouth ran faster than his brain. A blessing in his line of work, but also a curse, when a joke would pop out of his mouth, unbidden and inappropriate in whatever circumstances he found himself.

This was important. Richie felt the pressure of trying to get the right words out. He didn’t want to mess up this fragile thing between them. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing and frighten Eddie off, or make him think that Richie was treating this, this thing between them, lightly. He didn’t want Eddie to go into this with anything other than his eyes wide open. Richie knew he was not an easy man to be with. He was complex; sometimes erratic, sometimes illogical. Eddie should know what he was signing up for. If he was signing up for it.

He took a deep breath, and looked Eddie in the eye.

“Eddie.” He said, gripping Eddie’s hands, hoping that Eddie would let him speak. Eddie looked at him, with a carefully neutral expression, like he, too was worried about what was about to come out of Richie’s mouth. “I need to say a few things.” He said, and Eddie smiled tightly. God. Why was this so hard? Richie found the words were stuck in his throat. “Are you going back to New York?” He blurted out, in the end.

“What?” Eddie said, pulling his hands away from Richie’s.

Richie ploughed on. What other choice did he have at this point? “Because if you are going back there... for your job, or your house or whatever, I’d like to come with you.”

“What?” Eddie said again. 

Crap. Richie was in a hole, and only knew how to keep digging. “I know it can be difficult to be with me. I’m not the easiest person to be around sometimes. I... I’m living with an illness, and I will get sick and you’d need to be prepared for it, and accept that it happens sometimes. I need to know if you think you can do that, Eddie. I need to know if you think you can be with me when I’m sick. I can be annoying, I know that, but...”. Richie trailed off. 

“What are you talking about?” Eddie said.

“Eddie, I’d follow you anywhere, if you’d let me.”

It took Eddie a few moments to process what Richie had said. Richie could see the confusion clear from his expression, and he gripped Richie’s hands again, tightly, and leaned in to kiss him, a slow slide of lips. “I’d let you.” He said, pulling back and holding eye contact. “If you wanted to.”

“I do want to.” Richie said, resolute. He’d pack up his entire life in LA and move to New York, or anywhere Eddie wanted to go. His life could be packed up in a matter of weeks.

“There’s nothing left for me in New York.” Eddie said. “I was thinking of moving out here.”

Richie repressed the urge to ask Eddie to move in with him. It was too soon, even though Eddie and Richie had lived together in Derry. Richie needed to do things right this time. Eddie deserved it. Eddie deserved the kind of relationship that would give him what Richie suspected he’d been missing all these years. Autonomy. Care and attention that wasn’t contingent on Eddie’s good behaviour, or on his compliance with any unwritten rules. A truthful and honest relationship, not co-dependent or controlling. Richie wanted to believe, despite his relative inexperience with proper relationships, that he could give Eddie what he needed, if Eddie was willing to live with the chaos that followed Richie like a cloud.

Living together in Derry had been temporary. A short-term nightmare trapped in the town that had traumatised them as children, facing a murder charge, and going through a depressive episode, while watching Eddie claw his way back from a life-threatening injury. 

Derry had been a horrible interlude. Richie truly never wanted to step foot in that town ever again.

But Derry had bought Eddie back to him. Richie had remembered his childhood, and the bittersweet thrall of being in Eddie’s path as a kid. He’d remembered the pain he’d felt when Eddie had moved away. He remembered the visceral sensation of seeing Eddie at the table at the Jade of the Orient, how everyone else had faded into the background, like he and Eddie were the only people at the reunion. Then, he’d had the opportunity to get to know Eddie as an adult, to watch him work, to be drawn in again to Eddie’s orbit, hooked in, tidally locked.

So on balance, Richie would do it all again. He’d fight the clown again, face up to the statue of Paul Bunyan, and the ghost of Adrian Mellon. He’d relive the entire year, if it was the price to pay to bring Eddie back to him.

There were so many reasons why it would be better to wait, to take things slowly, to ease their way in to whatever this was going to be between them, to nurture it. 

When had Richie ever taken the safe or steady option?

“Move in with me.” Richie said.

Eddie beamed at him, and a wave of relief washed over Richie that Eddie evidentially was not in the mood to be cautious. Eddie threw his leg over Richie’s hips and settled in his lap. He kissed him, a light brush of their lips that made Richie’s nerves tingle. 

“We’re going to have to do something about your bathroom, Richie.” Eddie said, against Richie’s lips. “It looks like it hasn’t been updated since the eighties.”

Eddie pressed his hips down in Richie’s lap, and yes, that was enough to get Richie’s dick interested. Richie kissed as much of Eddie’s skin that he could reach, his neck, his collar bone, his cheek.

“There’s no rush.” Eddie said, a flush creeping down his neck where Richie’s lips were pressing light kisses. “We’ve got plenty of time.”


End file.
